Six Dawns, Six Hours
by Aimless Traveler
Summary: Out of six hundred potential seals, the demons have selected one that demands the capture and scourging of an angel for six dawns. Meanwhile, Dean's been having nightmares about a certain angel being tortured... in the depths of Hell. Spoilers for S4
1. Nightmare

_A/N: First I'd like to say a warm and heartfelt thank you to all of my reviewers. I appreciate your encouragement. For those hoping for a longer piece of work, I can't promise anything because I've never really been successful in keeping up with multi-chapter fics but this is my gift to you!_

_Disclaimer: Supernatural and all its affiliates belong to Eric Kripke._

Hell. Enfer. Hölle. Infierno. Ад. Sheol. Gehenna.

To some it was known as the Pit; to others, the place of ultimate suffering and punishment in the afterlife where damned souls were sent to be tortured for all of eternity. However, gradually over time, like so many other words in languages spoken by individuals all scattered around the globe, it lost its position as one those words that were only allowed to be spoken in hushed whispers with plenty of apologies to higher deities afterwards and soon became integrated into everyday life through mainstream pop culture.

The Greeks got it all wrong though, with their concept of the river Lethe and the Underworld guarded by Cerberus and lorded over by some anthropomorphic god named Hades and his wife Persephone. Dante Alighieri was somewhat off the mark too, but there was no way to be truly sure. It was certainly difficult to look for a sign that read "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here" or attempt keeping count of the different numbers of circles and bolgias when one was being dragged into the depths of eternal damnation by hellhounds.

First off, everyone always supposed Hell was all fire, brimstone and molten lava whereas those who had remembered their high school literature classes remembered from The Inferno that the deepest level of the abyss was in fact coated over in ice. Dean Winchester supposed that a little bit of both were true. What supposedly educated scholars and religious experts failed to realize was that the rules of physics and everything that dealt with the natures and properties of matter and energy here on earth _didn't_ apply in Hell. Sure he could still see the desolate landscape devoid of anything and everything save for the thousands of wasted, decrepit souls littering every inhabitable corner, unlike the next poor bastard who had nothing but empty sockets in his face. Sure he heard the screams and howls of all those there mingled with the hisses and shrieks of pleasure of the demons that tormented them- sounds that he would take to his (second) grave.

But what he didn't feel was because he simply couldn't. The pain of being flayed to the bone, having his skin peeled off inch by inch and feeling his skin splitting, giving way like water and bones splintering into a thousand tiny pieces before his eyes hardly left any room to calculate whether he felt hot or cold. Occasionally his mind would be able to register the nauseating odor of scorched flesh and coppery blood filling his nostrils before the pain overtook his sense again.

Dean took in a deep breath and tried to collect himself, shaking his head hard to rid his mind of the memory, but still it persisted. A frown creased his brow and he was suddenly aware that his shirt was sticking to his back, soaked in sweat and his surroundings were unusually warm. There was a faint buzzing in his ears and he turned onto his back, reaching for his pillow. _I've got to tell Sam to get us a room with an A/C that actually works next time…_

He couldn't find his pillow. Or his blanket, for that matter. And what was it about the bed that made it suddenly seem hard as stone? Coughing slightly now as something like smoke tickled the back of his throat, he sat up straight and opened his eyes-

-and was instantly assaulted from all sides by heat, screams of agony, pain, and evil. His jaw fell slack and an odd croaking nose emitted from his throat but Dean was incapable of words. _No… there's no way… how the HELL am I back here?!_

A trickle of sweat slid down his temple from hairline to chin as he sat up from where he lay on the blackened, solidified molten ground and took in the unsightly environment he had somehow landed himself in. It was no different than what he remembered from his first trip down into the Pit and as much as he wanted to close his eyes to shut out the horrors of where he was, to wish it all away or to suddenly wake up, the crank of the chains on the rack tightening and the cold dread he felt in the bottom of his stomach told him that everything that was happening was very real. _No, no, no. Get me out of here!! Sam!_

There was a jerking sensation as if someone was throwing a hook around his torso and dragging him forward. Directly in front of him now was a body held up by chains branded by evil, bloodied and torn. Bile rose up in the back of Dean's throat as he recalled how once he was the one turning the crank of the rack, how he'd been ordered to take up the whip or to rip apart souls with his bare hands- and how he had complied, regret chewing him up as he tortured so many nameless, faceless of the damned like himself under the watchful white eyes of Alastair.

Oh God, he could still hear the demon's oily, sickly sweet voice murmuring in his ear: _"That's it boy… good, good. Dean, I'm very impressed. Your potential is limitless; you might actually make it here…_" Dean clutched his head, hands clasped over his ears and knees nearly buckling as the guilt slammed into his mind, as fresh as those horrible moments past. _Cas, I could really use some angelic assistance right about now! Why aren't you here to yank me up from perdition this time around?_

Movement in front of him drew his attention back to the poor bastard stretched out upon the rack, completely vulnerable and helpless to the demons that flocked around him. None of them seemed to notice Dean at the present moment and the eldest Winchester was perfectly fine with keeping things that way when something caught his eye and made him halt abruptly in the process of slowly backtracking away from the grisly scene.

It seemed like the demons had been getting creative since he'd last been here, too easily bored with their routine motions of torture. Somehow they'd invented a rack that could turn one hundred and eighty degrees with ease, allowing full frontal and posterior access for the whip and other tools. The rack spun around and came to a stop with a sharp jerk that jostled the spread body and exposed the individual's back. Dean took a slow step forward, both unable and unwilling to believe his eyes. Though the man's skin had been literally cut and hacked into ribbons like a piece of meat upon a butcher's table exposing mutilated flesh and torn muscle underneath, some remnants still hung on his frame like rags. Dean could barely make out the elongated fabric looped around the victim's neck, once blue in color but now completely splattered crimson and it felt like a knife plunging swiftly into his gut.

Rushing forth and nearly tripping over his own two feet in his haste, Dean reached out a hand and jerked the revolving rack to a stop so that the man was facing him. The demons scattered, communicating in low guttural hisses about the intruder but he was beyond caring. Hardly knowing what to do for fear of causing the other more pain, Dean very carefully crooked a finger under the chin, lifting the head and all the while praying to the God that he doubted even existed-

He could've sworn that for one full second, his heart stuttered to a stop for the figure stretched out upon the rack, face grey and bloodless but splattered and flecked with arterial blood spray, cheeks sunken and brow tight with pain was Castiel, angel of the Lord.

"Castiel!" Dean very nearly roared, terrified and filled with horror at the lack of response all at once. _Shit. Shit, shit, shit, no!_ He pulled away and latched onto the manacle encircling the angel's right wrist that was connected to one of the multiple chains holding him in place, panic mounting as the action only earned him muscles straining to their limit and bleeding fingertips. "It's alright," he said aloud although Castiel's head was sunken down so low between the wings of his upraised arms, staying so still that Dean wasn't even sure the angel was aware of his presence. "Stay with me, Cas. I'm gonna get you out of here."

_Yeah, right. How?_ He continued to pull with all his might at the chains, to no avail. Had it been any other time in any other situation, Dean would have had to wonder at the irony of the situation and speculate as to whether or not God really did have a sick, twisted sense of-

"Dean."

"Cas?"

He stopped rattling the chain and moved in front of the angel whose chin was no longer touching his chest, exhaustion and pain reflecting clearly in his dark blue eyes that used to be filled with infinite wisdom and compassion. Castiel's voice was weak, raspy and barely audible and Dean could hear the air rattling in the angel's tattered chest as he tried to draw breath. "It's up to you now," were the words that somehow got out past blood-flecked white lips and Dean frowned, half crazed with desperation and confusion.

"What? What's up to me now?"

"To prevent Lucifer from rising."

Suddenly the angel stiffened, eyes growing bright with unshed tears of pain as his jaw clenching tight. His back arched and to Dean's horror, a shaft of hellfire-forged metal burst out of Castiel's chest from where it had been thrust up and in between his shoulder blades from behind. "Cas!" The rack was turning now again and Dean could see the outline of perpetrator who stood there on the other side. Something that wasn't quite lava but wasn't quite ice lancing through his chest and spreading through his entire body, down his arms and into his hands which curled into hard fists. A vein bulged in his forehead. _Come on, you son of a bitch. That's it. Face me._ The instrument of torture stopped once again with a harsh jolt and Dean was about to leap forward, fist cocked over his left shoulder when the recognition knocked into him like a brick wall and he fell backwards onto his ass.

"_Sam_?!"

His younger brother grinned, eyes tinted yellow but didn't respond as he reached out and with a forceful pull, yanked the blade out of Castiel's chest and brought the metal up to his mouth, tongue darting out to lick it clean with a crazed, malevolent grin. The angel's body spasmed horribly, back arching upwards, writhing in pain and all Dean could manage to do was sit there dumbly, staring in utter shock at his baby brother whom he'd sworn to protect and to keep from changing into what he saw before him now.

"Hello, Dean." Sam smirked, voice making the older Winchester shudder. "Here to enjoy the show?" He nodded at someone behind Dean, "Hold him back. Make sure he doesn't interfere." Clawed hands gripped his arms and twisted tightly, pinning his limbs before Dean had the presence of mind to protest or move on his own. …_Sammy? _

"You still alive, prick?" Sam spat, voice dripping with mockery as he drew his fist back and let it rocket forward, smashing into the side of Castiel's face. Dean flinched as the blow connected but even though the force made the angel's body sway in the chains, Castiel made no sound. Sam's usually tranquil features twisted into an ugly scowl and he brought his fist up sharply to connect with the underside of the angel's face, smashing his head up and backwards. "Not going to talk? Daddy can't hear you now, can he?"

"GET OUT OF MY BROTHER, YOU BASTARD!"

Sam turned, eyebrows raised at the outburst and eyes flashing bright yellow, just like Azazel. Dean struggled fiercely against the claws that held him back, desperate to rush to his brother and shake out whatever was possessing him because surely this wasn't his brother. There was no way.

"He's not possessed, Dean."

He froze, because he recognized the greasy voice that at the moment was filled with pleasure and amusement. Alastair strode forward and patted Sam's shoulder affectionately, very much like a proud father would to his son and Dean's anger burned hot again, expanding in his chest and making it hard to breathe. "You son of a bitch," he hissed angrily, eyes aching from the hot tears he was trying to hold back because he had failed Sam. And he had failed his father.

"That will be enough for now, Sam," Alastair purred, never once taking his eyes off his victim and Sam moved aside, bowing his head once in deference to the older demon and going to stand beside the rack. He caught Dean's anguished, pleading gaze and smirked with nothing short of pure wickedness.

"Watch, Dean," he said smoothly. "The fun's just about to start."

Dean's head whipped back toward Castiel who was still hanging motionless in his bonds as Alastair approached. "I've been watching you," he said softly, mouth right beside the angel's ear. "I've been watching you this entire time and I must say kiddo, once again you impress me. Six days is like sixty years down here so I've been told and not one single scream." His mouth tightened in disapproval. "Not much fun for me though."

The demon's hands came up to encircle Castiel's throat then and Dean was instantly reminded of the time when he witnessed a very similar scene but they hadn't been in Hell but in a barn, it hadn't been the stench of rotting flesh overpowering everything but hay and dust. And certainly Castiel didn't look like a helpless puppet pounded over and over again with a meat tenderizer. "Come on, kiddo," Alastair said in a low, soft voice. "Just one little whimper."

To Dean's horror, he noticed the faint light that had been surrounding Castiel even here in the depths of hell was dimming and he struggled even harder to get to the angel. _Cas!_

"Yes? No?" The older demon said nonchalantly, keeping one iron grip around the angel's throat and using the other to lash at Castiel's face until Dean heard cartilage snapping, until blood gushed like a torrent. The other demons that surrounded the scene were hooting and hollering in enjoyment at the sight of their holy counterpart, nearly broken.

Growing bored and no doubt frustrated, Alastair planted his feet and drew his free hand backwards. Dean waited with baited breath because as must as he hated himself for it, that was all he could do. As if in slow motion the demon's hand, clawed, scaly and unrecognizable shot forward and plunged into Castiel's chest. "Castiel!" he hollered.

The angel was choking on blood and it snaked down his chin in rivulets as Alastair casually twisted his wrist this way and that, wreaking irreparable damage to his victim. Suddenly, his features lit up in discovery and he shoved his arm in up to the elbow before ripping it out with savage morbidity. There was something glowing bright in the demon's grasp, growing dimmer and dimmer by the moment and with shocking realization, Dean gaped as Castiel's grace grew dark and slipped through Alastair's fingers like water and dissipated like mist.

His head turned sharply like someone had slapped him in the face, horrified eyes fixed upon Castiel. The angel's eyes were rolling skyward, eyelids fluttering, a single agonized groan slipping from his throat. There was no way he was speaking since Alastair had all but torn his lungs to shreds but Castiel's lips moved in a silent whisper and above the screams of the thousands of other souls in the far stretches of hell, Dean heard the one word so full of pain, desperation, and regret. But more than that, a plea for forgiveness.

"_Father._"

Castiel's head fell down against his mangled chest and the angel sagged limply against the chains, light fully extinguished.


	2. Second Dawn

_Disclaimer: Supernatural and all its affiliates belong to Eric Kripke. _

Dean woke with a strangled scream lodged in this throat, heart banging triple time against his ribs. His body was covered in a fine sheen of sweat and he sat up stiffly, running his fingers through his short hair as he gazed wildly around the interior of the motel room, wide and unblinking eyes drinking in the ugly paisley wallpaper and the dingy grey carpet.

From the other side of the room there came the sound of slow, steady breathing that was occasionally interrupted by the rattling of the A/C before it grew quiet again. Dean sat there for a moment feeling lightheaded and now somewhat dizzy by all the oxygen he was forcibly drawing into his lungs. Sam was snoring peacefully in the other bed and at that moment what Dean wanted to do more than anything else was to go over and peel back his brother's eyelids just to ensure that there were no flecks of yellow in his those dark brown eyes filled with gentleness and kindness that belonged to _Sam_.

But he didn't. Instead, the elder Winchester exhaled slowly and stood, bare feet pattering softly against the rough carpet as he moved across the room and slipped out the door.

Outside, Dean leaned his forearms against the rusted railing with white peeling paint, hanging his head low, breathing a bit more normally now but still unable to fully relax. _I thought Sam was the one with the weird powers; since when have I been able to do this freaky psychic stuff? And what does it mean?_

Ah, the million dollar question. With a sigh, Dean raised his head and uplifted his eyes to the fading stars. Try as he might, he couldn't drive the bloody image of Castiel's chest being ripped open from his mind; nor could he stop hearing the sound of the angel's dying gasp resounding in his ears.

"_It's up to you now, Dean._"

The air smelled sweet with the dew of a new day and Dean stayed there for who knew how long, head bowed in the grey light of the dawn. Somehow it didn't seem quite right to just forget about what he had seen and just go back to sleep. He doubted he would be able to close his eyes for a while now for fear of having another crazy dream.

_What did he mean that it's up to me?_ Was it a warning? A remote memory that was just the byproduct of his head screwing around with him, or some crazy hallucination brought on by last night's combination of greasy food and scotch? _I knew that hotdog looked too suspicious to eat_…

He hadn't seen the holy tax accountant in a while now, not since… since Anna left, actually. Even as a pang of bitter loneliness hit somewhere deep in his chest, he pushed it down and tried to focus on the problem at hand. Of course neither he nor Sam really kept tabs on the angel because Castiel often popped up out of nowhere whenever it suited him or the big guy upstairs, so going a couple of weeks without turning his head and jumping out of his skin when he saw the angel suddenly sitting there nearby shouldn't have unnerved him as much as it was doing right now.

_He's an angel for crying out loud. Warriors of the Lord, or whatever. The holy tax accountant can take care of himself._ But even as he thought this, another section of his mind protested, and quite adamantly at that. A dull ache was starting to form behind his eyes and Dean groaned quietly, thumping his forehead twice against the railing of the motel's balcony.

Unbidden, an image of Sam floated into his mind, standing there with that eerily familiar yellow gleam in his eyes, demonic chants dropping from his lips like perverted prayers and he lifted his head, squinting into the rays of the rising sun. _Sammy, what am I going to do with you? What's going to happen to us?_

It wasn't as if he'd forgotten about Lilith and the sixty-six seals; it wasn't as if he'd forgotten about the apocalypse. After all, anyone who forgot about being dragged out of the Pit itself four months after his death by an angel who then told him that the heavenly beings of the cosmos had work for him to do had to be pretty stupid. And while he hadn't gone to college like Sam had, Dean liked to think that he was a pretty smart guy.

No, it wasn't because of absent-mindedness that he and Sam seemed to be turning their attention away from the task of preventing the end of the world and choosing instead to check out their old high school or stopping a siren. But seriously though… with no word or direction from the angels, how were they supposed to determine which of the six-hundred potential seals were under pressure to be broken next?

_It's not my job to worry about them and their freakin' apocalypse,_ Dean thought, annoyed that he was losing sleep over it all. _They were the one who pulled me out of Hell because they supposedly had work for me or something-_

"_I pulled you out of Hell and I can throw you back in." _

_Damn it Cas, get out of my head!_ Angrily he turned back toward the room and bumped directly into Sam's chest.

"Dean?" His brother yawned, rubbing his eyes and blinking blearily. "What're you doing out here? Everything alright?"

"Yeah… yeah, everything's fine."

* * *

Sam was worried.

Dean had barely touched his breakfast. Most of the time, even when they were little, practically no one could get him to _stop_ stuffing his face. Dean was the stereotypical guy- as far as Sam knew, most everything in his brother's life could be traced back to food, women, or hunting. The last part was one thing extra than what other guys focused on, but that was just about the only difference. Even when faced with the chance of having an impossible wish granted, what did he wish for? An Italian foot-long with jalapeños.

This, however, was not the typical Dean. Sitting there, swirling his own piece of pancake around in the sugary sweet fake kind of maple syrup, his jaw very nearly fell to the floor when without casting one look at the cute waitress who was clearly flirting with the two of them, Dean sent the rest of his plate back without even asking for a takeout bag. The elder Winchester had once shaken him like a rag doll (literally) when he tried sending his plate back with food still on it and then proceeded to explain to him the great cardinal sin of leaving unfinished food on his plate.

"You sure you don't want anything else, hun?" The waitress was addressing him now and Sam gave her a quick friendly smile.

"No thanks. Could we get the check please?"

"Sure thing, sweet."

Sam turned his attention back toward his brother who was scrubbing wearily at his face. "Dean?" The other didn't respond, only stared even deeper into his drink. "Dean!"

"Huh?" Dean looked up- and immediately wished he hadn't done so. The sun was slanting across the town's landscape, cutting the street into fragmented strips of light and reflecting across the street signs and in through the diner's glass windows, falling across their table.

Sam's eyes were yellow in the sunlight.

_Damn!_ Dean shook his head hard and mentally slapped himself across the face. "I'm fine." He blinked and then again Sam was reached back to stab Castiel through the chest viciously with the piece of metal he held in his hand- "Aren't we looking for a demon, Sam?" he asked loudly, enunciating very clearly as if he had suddenly gone deaf. Abruptly he rose from the red vinyl seats, gulping down the rest of his drink. "Let's get to work."

Keeping one eye warily on his brother, Sam threw a few dollar bills on the table and followed Dean out of the diner, worried but sensing his brother's reluctance, chose not to press the issue. _Dean, what's going on with you_?

* * *

He backed away slowly, pressing a hand to the most recent of his injuries, a gash that ran across his vessel's abdomen that was quite superficial but large nonetheless. His clothes were torn from the amount of damage done and now they flapped around his frame like stray crows in the wind that swept over the field. The moon lit down upon them, a silver spotlight upon the remote battle that no one save for its participants knew of.

There was a hiss to his left and Castiel turned quickly, wary of the horde of demons that kept pressing closer, their total number impossible to guess. He could have simply left the cornfield for a safer place and left the demons to do what they would in the humans they were possessing, for he was already weary. He could have done so, but such an action would be akin to retreating from battle conditions when warriors of the Lord were never to back down, never to surrender to the most unclean or his army of fallen followers.

Even if he had been given the choice to escape, Castiel quite consciously knew that he would never have abandoned the Father's children to be enslaved as such. He had once told Dean that they were works of art and as they stood before him now, possessed and used as tools for demonic pleasure, he felt not disgust but only great compassion.

One young girl lunged forward, her neat blonde hair mussed and formerly innocent blue eyes now darker than the Pit itself. _Hannah Brunelle. _The name rang out clearly in his ears. She had a mother and a father, a newborn younger brother and she loved to finger-paint pictures of her family. She wanted to be a singer when she grew up and everyone always told her she had an angelic voice.

None of this was evident in the way she advanced toward the angel in the brown trenchcoat and blue tie, hissing and almost snarling. Castiel could see the warped, twisted features of the demon behind the little girl's face and though she lunged for him, small fingers scrabbling at his throat, the angel caught her easily and pressed his palm to her forehead gently, driving the demon out while handling little Hannah with the utmost care.

The demon screamed in agony as it was driven out of its vessel and the girl went limp in Castiel's hold. The angel tenderly put her down on the ground, sensing the possessed man behind him just as two-hundred and twenty pounds of muscle landed on his back and pulled him down into the dirt, where they swarmed onto him like vultures devouring their kill.

* * *

"You ready?"

Dean didn't answer, only jerked his head sharply in a semblance of a nod and stepped out of the Impala, shutting the door quietly and heading for the trunk. Sam followed; taking the shotgun and the several vials his brother offered him. Dean armed himself and started up walkway to the front door, which was lined with twin rows of carefully pruned rosebushes and a white picket fence. It looked like something out of a scene in Pleasantville, and it freaked him out. It was wonder demons chose the suburbs as a place to hide; they fit right in along with all the other crazily perfect families here.

Several loud knocks rang out as fist hit wood. Once, twice, three times.

Footfalls approached and presently the large, teak door swung inward and opened to reveal Simon Barger, a middle aged typical breadwinner of his family. Strongly built and obviously fit, the man's smiling face revealed nothing amiss- but the overwhelming smell of sulfur did.

"Hello? Anyone there?"

There was no one at the door. Simon frowned slightly and stuck his head slightly outside for a closer look to see if it was just the damn neighborhood kids again playing ditch the doorbell-

-when the blast of a shotgun erupted in his chest and the demon fell back, screeching in a demonic language only it knew and trying to (unsuccessfully) wipe away all the granulates of salt that covered its vessel. Shrieking it fell back, cowering away from the door and the still-smoking barrel of the shotgun and the grim-faced man who held it.

Dean brought the butt of the shotgun down hard upon the demon's back and with a swift move slammed the barrel into its face. He looked to his left into the kitchen and saw Simon Barger's pregnant wife and six-year old son, lying dead on the floor with their throats slit. _We're too late. _His anger rose with the increasing pools of crimson and he let his fist do the talking for him, finding some sense of satisfaction at feeling cartilage give way under his hand. "You sick son of a bitch."

"Dean!" Sam called, sounding stressed. "Look out!"

Suddenly then he found himself being flung across the hallway into the living room and he grunted in pain when his back connected solidly with something and he fell to the ground, glass and pieces of shattered china fell around him like droplets of rain. Looking up from his position on the floor he saw that Sam had been slammed up against the wall and the demon was on his feet, scrutinizing his brother closely.

"Sam Winchester," he sniffed, looking unimpressed. "What does _he_ want with a dirty half-breed like _you_? Azazel always had his quirks but there's nothing special about a freak like you…"

Sam struggled against the invisible hold, eyes straying down toward Ruby's knife that had fallen to the floor when he had defied the rules of physics and flew across the room. He concentrated as best as he could, drawing into himself and tapping into the reserve of darkness that he'd stowed away in the corner of his mind and away from his consciousness. _Come on, you can get out of this; just focus…_

A harsh slap to the side of his head stunned him and he opened his eyes to see the demon wagging a finger at him as if reprimanding an impudent child. "Tsk, tsk. None of that now. I haven't even gotten to have my fun with your brother over there. We're old buddies, you know. Got acquainted real well during his time down there in Hell-"

Simon pinned Sam in place and turned to hound on his target and was met with a wave of holy water splattering all over his face and he howled aloud like a dying banshee, steam curling up from his vessel's face and twisted like grey snakes in the air before disappearing. He had the upper hand but instead of picking up Ruby's knife and putting an end to the demon Dean stood there stupidly for a minute, mind flashing back to seeing Castiel's grace held captive in Alastair's hand, melting away and fading away, evanescent.

"Dean!" Sam yelled. _What the hell are you staring at? _

Dean's head snapped to the side with the force of the punch and he reeled backwards but mind now intact. As the demon loomed over him he scrambled for the dagger and was rewarded for his vain efforts with a kick to the ribs. He resisted the urge to curl into a fetal position and instead turned his back on the demon, reaching into his pocket and unscrewing the top of his father's canteen.

The demon reached forth to grab Dean's shoulder in order to haul him up but suddenly backed off. "What's that?" he hissed uneasily and all of them looked down at Dean's bare arm, the shirtsleeve having been torn off in the fight and the now-exposed raised red ridges in the shape of a handprint branded onto the hunter's bicep. "Got an angel perched on your shoulder?" he sneered, fear apparently no more and he stooped once more to get a hold of his punching bag.

Sam, now released due to the demon's inattentiveness, leapt forward with the grace of a cat and plunged the dagger directly in the demon's back. Dean grinned his thanks and accepted his brother's hand as he rose, looking with disdain at writhing, convulsing demon on the floor.

"Yeah, actually."

Charles's face twisted grotesquely but a deep guttural cackle flew from his throat along with the blood the leaked from his mouth. "Not for long…"

Dean's stomach clenched and even Sam drew in a sharp breath. "What does that mean?' He grabbed the demon by the front of his white, starched button-down shirt and glared into the black eyes when he got no immediate response. "Tell me, damn you!"

Even in the throes of death, the demon snorted in superiority at the human's idiocy. "We'll be having fun with him down in the Pit. You should join us."

"Go to Hell," was the caustic response. Charles smirked.

"He had a pretty face, your angel. Who knows what might-" His taunt was cut off by an ear-splitting shriek as Dean viciously pulled the knife swiftly out of the dying demon's back and plunged it into his brain. A funnel of black smoke rose from the gaping wounds and the elder Winchester stood there, rage etched into every line of his face, watching the evil being die.

Sam was watching his brother worriedly and he took in the tense posture, every tight muscle in Dean's rigid stance and the way his jaw worked furiously. "Dean?" he said tentatively and the response was curt as Dean turned sharply and left the house, slamming the door on his way out.

"Let's go."

* * *

Castiel's hand rose to block the oncoming swing of the tire iron without even turning his head as he pressed his palm to the forehead of another possessed human, this time a young man in a dark business suit complete with sweater vest and tie. _Eric Forrester_. The angel gently let him down onto the ground as another demon was returned to its proper place in Hell.

_Castiel._

He heard the whisper in his mind, brushing feather light against his senses and he felt the presence and turned so fast his motions were invisible to the human eye…but still wasn't fast enough. A hand slammed against Castiel's forehead and excruciating pain exploded in the form of stars behind his eyes and felt like a hot iron spoke lancing through his temples; the angel's knees buckled and he fell into the dirt ungracefully, head landing hard against a rock, spiraling into the merciless clutches of the state between dying and waking.

The demons stepped forward cautiously, wary of the powerful angel even as he lay on the ground in unconsciousness. A pale hand extended forth, gently tracing slim fingers down Castiel's cheek, caressing the angel's face. "Oh Castiel," the smooth voice chuckled. "How admirable, noble, and yet incredibly simpleminded you are. Blind faith in your Father till the end." The fingers stopped playing across the skin and lingered on his lips and a sigh was heard. "And what an end you shall have…" The slim digits snapped suddenly, bringing the demons to attention. "Take him away."

No one was there to see the man being dragged away through the cornfield, no on was there when an angel of the Lord was betrayed into the hands of evil.

_A/N: Please review! I could really use your encouragement and ideas too!! I'm open to anything, as this story is still developing…suggest something and I might add it in! _


	3. Third Dawn

_Disclaimer: Supernatural and all its affiliates belong to Eric Kripke._

His surroundings were blotchy and unfocused, like he was staring through a pair of glasses with the wrong perscription. A pile of something yellow that looked like sticks- wait no, that was hay. Wind was whistling through blurry planks of rotting wood above him that were shabbily patched together, letting in small shafts of sunlight. Dust particles floated around in the air. His nose instinctively wrinkled as it vaguely picked out the smell of manure…and sulfur.

From what Dean could gather, he was standing in the fuzzy landscape of a barn which was distorted by his own senses and unfocused perception. _A barn… why does it always have to be a barn? _Dust flew by his nostrils and he sneezed once, twice. _Well, at least it's better than Hell. _

He blinked and tried to rub his eyes but his arms remained firmly pinned to his sides by some unseen force, hands curled into loose fists. His feet were rooted into the floor strewn with straw and the basic products of the building's degeneration. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Dean knew quite clearly that this was another dream; he knew he was asleep and could wake up if he wanted to. But at the same time there was another part of him that had no such desire to return to the world of the waking just quite yet because he had to know, he _needed_ to know…

_Cas?_

It was the magic word. The veil was stripped away, his vision cleared and what used to be blurs and moving objects a couple of seconds ago was now the grisly scene of a silent horror flick nearly frozen in time, frames moving by in slow motion. Dean's eyes grew wide and his head swiveled this way and that, drinking in everything he could about the scene even as his face flamed hot in anger and his jaw clenched so tightly he thought his teeth would shatter.

Castiel looked like hell.

_No, wait. That's not right. _It was an inappropriate comparison for even now it was impossible to align the angel alongside or even place him on the same level on anything that had to do with the Inferno of the damned. The holy tax accountant had his own sense of bearing alright, but still. As of right here and right now, there was no other way Dean could describe what he saw in front of him.

The angel's wrist and ankles were encircled with manacles made of some strange metal and he was shackled to two posts on either side of his form, hanging loosely from his outstretched arms some two feet off the floor. Demons possessing random people danced around their captured prize, some holding knives and other sharp instruments; others held random objects that they were using to repeatedly club against the angel's frame like they were playing whac-a-mole at some stupid county fair.

Castiel's face was tight with something that was not quite pain but his expression wasn't entirely free of discomfort, either. His dark blue eyes were focused intently on the ceiling of the barn, gazing up at something that lay beyond the rafters that were falling apart, searching for something only his eyes could behold. Even though his body swung loosely back and forth in the chains as blows rained down from all directions, the angel's lips were firmly pressed together, not opening to emit even the smallest whimper.

Dean's throat closed up like there was a huge, stupid sob obstructing it but there was no way that was it because he wasn't crying because Dean Winchester didn't cry.

He wouldn't let the hot tears past their carefully guarded floodgates. Not even as he watched a possessed little blonde girl slamming a length of wood against Castiel's knee until the bone showed white through the bloody mass of tattered cloth, not even as they peeled back the white button-down shirt that was by now stained crimson in order to carve the words "pietistic ass" into the angel's torso, not even as a demon touched a hot iron spoke to the angel's cheek resulting in the stench of scorched flesh. Now _that_ was what Hell smelled like.

_You bastards… you goddamn sons of bitches, I'm going to hunt down each and everyone one of you and shred you to pieces with my bare hands!_

At long last his rage simmered over and the spell broke. All ceased to be silent as the gleeful cackles, sounds of blunt objects striking flesh and the sickening hiss of the branding iron was all drowned out by the roar that erupted from the hunter's throat. Dean's green eyes blazed a furious, brilliant emerald and he lunged forward, hands outstretched for the throat of the nearest demon who turned around with a smirk and all too familiar brown eyes flecked with yellow-

* * *

"Dean. Dean! Wake up!"

Sam had to dodge yet another one of his brother's flying fists and struggled for control. Dean's eyes were screwed tightly shut and his forehead was furrowed, eyebrows drawn towards each other, molars grinding together. He had somehow gotten the blanket wrapped around his stomach and legs, which inhibited his frenzied, jerking movements somewhat but didn't stop him from attempting to deliver his brother worlds of hurt and the inability to have children with one wild kick.

Sam backed away, safely out of the danger zone and put up his hands in surrender, at a total loss at what to do. He felt helpless, like a clueless child watching an epileptic fit as Dean fought against an enemy that only existed in his head, something that all the salt in the world couldn't blast away, something that no amount of holy water could repel. What was a little brother supposed to do?

Getting back within the range of the bed didn't seem like such a good idea given that the elder Winchester had one hell of a punch, which was oddly accurate even in sleep. Sam poked his jaw gingerly and wondered if all of his teeth were still in place. _Okay. _It shouldn't have been all that hard. _Maybe I can pin him down if I get-_

"_Sammy_!!"

Dean's torso and upper body shot straight up off the bed like a spring flying back from being held down by some invisible force and his eyes flew wide open. He turned halfway toward his brother who was watching him warily from the other side of the motel room and tried to get out of bed only to have the sheets twisted around his lower half restrict his movements, landing him flat on his face in the carpet that was probably saturated with every kind of biological fluid known in the realm of science.

"Dean?" Now Sam was really worried. As he watched his brother extricate himself from the bed linen and push himself up into a seated position on the floor, he carefully sat down in the chair directly opposite and waited, brow furrowed, for a response. Any response. "How are you feeling?"

"I can't get it out of my head, Sam." Dean's voice was low, rough, and hoarse. Like he'd been cheering for too long and too loud at some sporting event or like he'd been screaming his lungs out. Sam leaned forward, elbows on his knees and gazing intently at his brother. Dean rarely opened up like this and he wasn't about to let this rare opportunity go to waste. And judging by the dark circles around his brother's eyes, Sam knew that this confession of sorts was a long time in coming.

"Get what out?"

"They're doing it again." Dean blew out a lungful of air and let his head fall back against the bed. "I don't know how or why because it's not like I want to see it but every single time I close my eyes; I swear I'm haunted-"

"Haunted? The EMP hasn't been picking up any readings."

"God, but it's worse than I remember. Seeing them carving him up like some freakin' Sunday roast-"

"Him? Who's him?"

"-but he doesn't even say a word, just keeps looking up at the damn ceiling like he's waiting for salvation or something, I don't know but I'm waiting too and it never comes, they just keep chopping and hacking away-"

"Dean!" Sam was in front of his brother now, grabbing him by the shoulders and giving him one hard shake. "Snap out of it!" Slowly, Dean looked at him and Sam breathed out a sigh of relief. "Now what the hell are you talking about?"

"Demons," came the disyllabic answer. "I keep seeing them in my dreams, Sam. They're torturing him, and I see it everywhere- in Hell, on earth…"

"Who are you talking about?"

"…Castiel."

Sam felt an invisible fist shove its way down his throat, through his esophagus and into the pit of his stomach. "The angel?"

Dean gave him an exasperated look, which was dulled considerably by his haggard features and bed head. "You know another Castiel?"

"No, but-" Sam rocked backwards on his heels and simply sat there for a moment, stunned. Dean dragged a hand across his face, scrubbing at his weary eyes and trying to erase the lines of tension and fear etched in deep. He half expected the other to ask how much he'd been drinking before bed again (and it wasn't much, only a couple of shots at the bar after he hustled some pool) but Sam was silent. _Who am I kidding, he probably thinks I'm hung-over or crazy. _

"I don't think you're crazy." Dean jerked in shock and stared at his brother. _Okay, I've had enough of the weird and freaky for one night Sam, don't you start whipping out that ESP crap on me again. _

Sam stood and reached for his laptop. He cast a watchful eye at his brother in the reflection of the mirror that hung tackily on the wall to make sure Dean was still sitting in an upright position and hadn't fallen over again when he just so happened to glance at himself as well. There was a contemplative frown making his features much more serious than usual. It wasn't a fresh-faced, yuppie lawyer wannabe in front staring back at him from the cold panel that reflected all without judgment or discrimination, but a twenty-six year old hunter who'd had painful experience as his lessons and loss as a harsh teacher that guided him down the path he walked today.

"_Sam Winchester… the boy with the demon blood. I'm glad to hear that you've ceased your… extracurricular activities."_

In the handshake, Sam had not sensed even a shred of the disdain or revulsion he expected from Castiel after the angel had hesitated in taking his hand for that long moment that seemed to have stretched on for an eternity. The feelings that he'd internalized and all to often directed at himself had been absent in the angel's frank, direct gaze that seemed to pierce straight to his core. It had been sincere and understanding but by no means passionate. Even through Castiel's vessel Sam could sense the unbridled power and strength of the proclaimed angel of the Lord.

Now as he thought back upon it, as much as the latter part of the greeting had stung at the time, there had been no judgment in the angel's tone. Well, it was oftentimes hard to tell exactly what he was feeling with the deadpan voice and expressionless mien and revealed nothing. But Castiel wasn't cruel, he wasn't the smite first, ask questions later type like Uriel and that alone made him seem more… human, in a sense.

It was impossible to figure out an angel, and Sam quickly realized that he was okay with that. He had a little more confidence in certain circumstances than Dean and he'd learned to accept the fact that there were going to be things happening that there would be no explanation for, there were going to be actions and orders carried out that he would never understand the reasoning behind, and that was alright. All he knew for sure right now though, was the simple fact that when Dean had been in Hell, an angel of the Lord somehow dragged him out and gave Sam back his brother. To him, that was reason enough to have faith in this unknown, unseen entity that was somewhere high above the clouds, dictating all the workings of the universe.

It was reason enough to help Castiel.

"Dean, what did you see?" Sam flicked open his laptop and tapped the space bar a few times to bring it out of sleep mode. From where he still sat on the floor, his brother blinked at him owlishly.

"What are you talking about? What're you going to do, psychoanalyze my brain or something?"

"I had nightmares before Jessica died." Silence pervaded in the room as the last half of the sentence hung in the air, unspoken and yet ringing out clearly in both of the brothers' minds. _And it came true._

Clearing his throat, Dean stood and went over to the table, sinking down into the seat opposite his brother. "Two nights ago, it was Hell. This time, it was in a barn." He pressed the palms of his hands against his eyelids, driving his eyes back into their sockets and pulling up the grisly images once again… "There was some sort of mark," he said slowly, not taking his hands away from his face. "It looked like a brand of some sort, on his forehead."

"Was it a pentagram? Maybe an inverted cross, or…" The tapping of keys continued on far into the night as the sun rose above the concrete and brick landscape of the city, pouring into the room and heralding the arrival of the fourth dawn.

* * *

Castiel felt weak.

It was strange, foreign. Unnatural. The angel hung heavy from his wrists, feet dangling off the floor and head so leaden that he could barely lift it anymore. His chest ached each time he tried to draw breath and he could barely see out of swollen eyes. This pain that he was experiencing was a far cry from the wounds he received in battle with the fallen ones; it was far sharper and persistent, throbbing like his vessel's unsteady heartbeat and fluid like the coppery, thick liquid that slid off his suspended frame to collect in increasingly large pools on the ground beneath.

So this was what it felt like to be mortal, to be bound within the limitations of a perishable vessel and cut off from the Father and his fellow brothers and sisters. _Be gracious to me, O Lord, for I am in distress; my eye is wasted from grief; this soul and body also._ Castiel felt a swell of an unnamed emotion as he exhaled a shuddering breath and traced the memories back through the exhaustion and pain back to the beginning, to the first dawn…

_The moon shone down full and bright upon the quiet cornfield and illuminated the solitary figure that walked a lonely, unworn path alongside the stretch of land. His dark blue eyes were tired but focused on the road ahead, his brown trench coat and blue tie putting him out of place here in the countryside. _

_Castiel moved steadily, not quite exhausted but somewhat weary after the recent battle over the seal that kept the stars in their place and he uplifted his gaze to the shining jewels that still resided peacefully in the sky, undisturbed after the victory for the Lord. It was not won without cost though, and Castiel knew that in time, even the armies of Heaven would be dwindling in strength and number. _

"_And where's your boss when all of this is happening, huh? At what point does he lift a _finger_?!"_

_Dean Winchester's furious hiss of a whisper had affected him more than the mortal knew. He had been ready to answer with the justification that the Lord worked in mysterious ways and up until that point, such an answer had been enough for him. But after watching two more of his brothers and one of his sisters fall in just one night… it gnawed at his mind. _

_Doubt._

_Suddenly there was a presence behind him, not one of a mortal's or one of his own kind. It surely was not one of the fallen either for he could feel the tremors of the earth and hear the soul of the child being possessed crying out, begging to be set free far long before the demon even appeared and so when he turned to confront the being that stood there on the road behind him, Castiel didn't know how to react when he saw Anna's dark red hair and milk paleness in the moonlight._

"_What's wrong?" Her voice was clear and not choked with emotion as it had been in the barn right before the confrontation with Alastair and his minions. "Are you not pleased to see me?"_

_Castiel noted that his brows had drawn tight together in a frown and his vessel was tense. There was something not right about this situation and yet he could not decipher the nature of that which was calling his senses to defense. "Only surprised," he replied truthfully. _

"_The Lord has more work for you tonight." Anna moved past him. "It's regarding another seal. Walk with me." _

_He complied, for any task that required immediate contact so soon after the last victory must have been of the utmost importance. She moved off the path and into the field; the plants seemed to bow away from her form. "What is my assignment?" _

_Anna stopped abruptly and turned toward him, hazel eyes shining in the darkness. "You tried to kill me, Castiel. You and Uriel both. How could you kill your own sister?"_

"_You were no longer my sister after you fell," Castiel replied evenly. "You lied to Dean Winchester; there was no longing for emotion in your fall." He stepped closer and saw the truth reflected in her countenance. "You were tempted into the carnal pleasures of mankind. The Father was merciful to have taken you back into his grace. Why do you speak of it now?"_

"_I lied?" Anna said innocently. She too stepped closer to her companion and raised a hand, extending one slim, white finger and tracing the line of his rugged jaw. "It was just a little white lie…" she whispered. _

_Castiel instantly pushed her hand away and stepped back. The instant she touched him, he had felt the remnants of sin in her being. She had allowed herself to be taken and consumed by the forbidden. "You have not been received back into the Father's grace." _

_Her smirk was full of guile and cold corruption. "Bingo." With a snap of her fingers the cornfield came alive with the demon possessed that Anna had been cloaking and Castiel was overwhelmed._

He heard the whistle of metal through the still air before he felt or saw the weapon striking and involuntarily tightened, breath seizing in his chest as it connected with his stomach, the brief respite the demons allotted him now over.

Fingers grabbed his hair and jerked his head upwards, forcing his eyes to meet the demon's gleeful face. "How does it feel, kiddo? To be trapped inside your meat puppet?" Nasty laughter and the guffaws of several demons rung out in the vast emptiness of the barn and a tongue flickered out to drag its way across the open gash on Castiel's temple. "No heavenly powers, no angelic assistance," the oily voice continued taunting, drawing out the words slowly. "And no one way telephone to Daddy dearest." There was hot breath on his cheek. "_Vos es unus." _

Castiel's face was stoic in appearance but his soul cried out in protest at the words and he quickly tried to drown out the other's jeers. _I trust in you, O Lord; I say, "You are my God." My times are in your hand; rescue me from the hand of my enemies and from my persecutors._

Alastair smirked and circled his prisoner. "There is one way to save yourself the trouble," he slyly offered, reaching out one finger to casually flick the brand on Castiel's forehead, the mark that delivered the mighty like a helpless, pathetic meat puppet into his hands. "Give me the vessel and I'll kill you gentle."

The words hit hard and Castiel knew then, he _knew._ Something cold wrapped its fingers around his lungs and squeezed hard but nonetheless he raised his head and stared the abomination in the eye. "You will never have Samuel Winchester."

The demon shrugged. "Fine by me. We will get him in the end. But for now…" he sneered smugly. "Let's take a little trip down then, shall we?"

Castiel closed his eyes. _Make your face shine on your servant; save me in your steadfast love. O Lord, let me not be put to shame, for I call upon you…_

_A/N: First off, let me say that inspiration hits at the most inopportune of times. English essays await. But I'd just like to say thank you for the reviews and please keep reading! The scripture is from Psalm 31 verses 9, 14-17. And I don't hate Anna, I really don't. But this is the best way to make all the pieces fit. Please offer up some suggestions!_


	4. Fourth Dawn

_A/N: Thank you to all my reviewers, you've given me a lot of encouragement in the continuation of this story. I hope that a lot of unanswered questions can be resolved here as the plot thickens. Sorry, pardon the cliché. I know this has been a while in coming; the "glitch" drove me nuts. But enjoy!_

_Disclaimer: Supernatural and all its affiliates belong to Eric Kripke._

The demons circled their prey silently, forming concentric rings around him. Several bodies littered the field, their owners lying unconscious in the wake of having malevolent spirits removed from their forms and the man with the brilliant blue eyes turned slowly, stare trained steadily on the many who still surrounded him. There was no fear upon his face, only the same concentration that bespoke hidden power and years of experience despite his relatively young appearance.

_Castiel._

The one word was spoken in a flawless, ethereal voice, resounding with authority and somehow lifted above the rest of humanity. It couldn't have belonged to any mortal alive, and yet Dean didn't find himself falling back against the tall stalks of corn, cringing and clutching his bleeding ears. Suddenly, there was a flash of light that would have blinded him had he not thrown up his arms to shield his face in time. He was knocked flat on his back but the image of what he had seen was forever sealed deep into his memory.

The moon's soft light fell upon Castiel's face, which held a myriad of emotions even though angels were supposedly not able to experience such feelings. Surprise peppered with disbelief flashed across his features, evident in the slight raising of his eyebrows and the noticeable widening of his eyes. These were quickly overtaken by a downward pull of his mouth and then a slight furrowing of his brow. There was a remarkable softening of his gaze, the likes of which Dean had never seen so plainly displayed on the angel's face before, these hints which could only connote regret.

No artist on earth, no matter how talented, could have _ever_ managed to twist compassion and sorrow so finely in one face; no pen could have ever done justice to the description of the raw sting of betrayal he saw there. And as the angel crumpled to the ground like a marionette whose strings had just been cut, Dean saw the same brand etched into Castiel's forehead and the hunter struggled to sit up, trying to see past the swarm of demons that were now converging on their helpless victim.

As wakefulness pulled at his senses, Dean for once fought against the light of consciousness and strained his eyes, catching the sight of the lone figure that stood above Castiel's limp frame, a figure made of both darkness and light.

* * *

"Do you think we should wake him up?"

"Nah, should probably let him sleep. Boy looks like he hasn't seen a proper bit of shuteye in weeks."

Sam carefully set down the covered pie tins next to the lamp on the small table beside the couch where Dean lay draped over the cushions like a sack of flour, head lolled back against the armrest and mouth halfway open in sleep. The diner had both cherry and apple pie and since he couldn't remember which one his brother preferred, he'd gotten both.

"Hey, Bobby?"

"Yeah?" The older man looked up from where he sat pouring over a textbook that even law students would've cried at the sight of.

"You got a blanket?"

"The ijit's on top of it."

Bobby watched Sam tilt his head to the side, trying to figure out to pull the blanket out from under Dean's sprawled out form without waking him. Presently, the younger Winchester shook his head and defeat and shucked off his own flannel jacket, carefully placing it over his brother's shoulders. A smile pulled at the elder hunter's mouth and he watched appreciatively as Sam sat down in the armchair near the couch with a sigh, picking up the dissertation written by someone or other that had fallen from Dean's slack fingers. He stared at the pages for a moment, and chuckled quietly, shaking his head in disbelief.

_You've got to be kidding me._ Sam flipped through the pages, glancing at the messy chicken scratch of notes written in the margins. Dean was never the one to do any research, more than often not he took upon himself the duty of hustling pool or choosing the location of where they would get their next meal. _And here he is annotating like a college student. Unbelievable. _

He had once told Dean that there was ten times as much lore about angels as there was about anything else they had ever hunted, and they had already been through this process once before, several months ago after Castiel had first pulled Dean out of hell. Sam sighed and flipped through the pages, skimming over the copious material. He had to wonder at the reversal of everything now though, for instead of finding out how an angel could pull someone _out_ of Hell, now what they were trying to find out was if and how it was possible to land an angel _in_ Hell.

It would've been a near impossible task if not for Bobby's library of lore that consisted of everything that went bump in the night and apparently things that fell from Heaven too. Sam snuck a discreet look at the other, who was still reading. The way Dean had turned wide, panic-stricken eyes upon Bobby that morning when they had arrived on his doorstep had been enough to goad him into agreeing to help. He had suggested seeking out Pamela for help as well, although the idea quickly withered away when Bobby reminded him exactly how she'd gotten her eyes burned out of her skull.

_What're we supposed to do?_ Sam shut the book and leaned his head back against the headrest, gazing listlessly up at the ceiling, slightly yellowed with age and grey-brown in some areas where Bobby had some trouble with leaks. They had been researching for nearly six hours nonstop and had yet to find anything useful or substantial.

"Find anything yet?" he asked aloud, more of an excuse to fill the emptiness of the silent room than to actually expect a response. To his surprise, the reply came filled with tentative wonder.

"Maybe." Sam stood, moving forward toward the desk.

"What is it?" He frowned at the small, block-style print and pulled the textbook closer for a better look. _"Sex Diluculo ac Hora,"_ He murmured, doing some quick and rudimentary Latin translation in his head. "Six daybreaks and hours? What does that mean?"

Bobby pointed at a graphic in the bottom left hand corner of the page. "Does that look familiar?"

Sam stared for a moment and then fumbled amongst the papers on the desk for the single sketch of the brand that Dean had drawn. He could still see his brother's face when he had touched the tip of the pen to the paper, face contorted in a mixture of confusion and pain. What had struck him the most though, was the stark fear he read on Dean's face, the fear of uncertainty and the horror of what he had seen behind closed eyes possibly coming true. It had been the face that stared back at him for days before Jessica's death, the same haunted gaze punctuated by dark circles around his eyes and the tightness of the cheeks as tension swallowed him whole. Sam remembered that face alright. It had been the face he wore days before Dean's contract expired and he hated to see it on anyone else's face, especially that of his older brother who was too self-assured and confident to be _that_ frightened of anything.

His fingers finally grasped the sheet of paper ripped off from the memo pad at the motel's front desk and pulled it loose from all the other junk cluttering the desktop and spread the crinkled surface smooth, placing it on top of the book for a close comparison.

Perfect match.

Bobby pushed slightly away from the table exhaled deeply, taking his hat off and rubbing the back of his head. "Dean said that he saw this on the angel's forehead?"

"Yeah, like it had been burned onto the skin, branded there like the handprint on his arm." Bobby's face was grave, almost solemn and a cold, heavy feeling swelled in the bottom of Sam's stomach. "Why, what is it?" He tried to read the caption underneath the picture but it was in Latin again and this time was far too advanced for his comprehension.

"It's a part of a ritual for the breaking of another seal. Your angel…" Bobby shook his head. "To put it lightly, he's in real bad shape."

* * *

Souls flooded into Hell by the multitude each and every day, individuals of all shapes and sizes, young and old, male and female. It almost seemed as if ambassadors from each and every race and tribe on earth were being sent down into the Pit for here; there was no discrimination or division between sex, race, or whether one had been a good person or not. Here, they were all one and the same- nameless, faceless souls that screamed out identical pleas for mercy and desperation as they begged for relief in the form of a death they would never taste.

Creators of those famed post-apocalyptic movies concerning zombies and whatnot had a common theme: when Hell filled up, the dead would walk the earth. What they didn't realize was that there was always room for more in Hell. The abyss was like a deep canyon that stretched on into the depths of forever, its entrance black, gaping, and always ready to accept its newest guest. Many came in and no matter how long, loud, or fervently they screamed, no one ever got out.

Until the day an emissary from above dove down deep into the deepest circle of the Pit, flaming form reducing to ashes those who had the ill fortune of being too close when he passed by. No one could restrain him, no one wanted to try even though demons and tortured souls alike raged when the angel's hand fell upon and closed firmly around the arm of one particular man. A stern blue gaze surveyed the landscape and the angel spoke in a voice that sounded like the roar of tens upon thousands of voices and a multitude of trumpets blasting coinciding with the clash of thousands of cymbals.

"_Adveho._"

With the soul of Dean Winchester in his grasp, the angel beat his great wings and rose up from the fires of Hell and grey plumes of smoke, up out of the Pit and into the realm of light and the living.

Now, the same souls and their tormentors who had witnessed such a display of power some time ago (it was hard to quantify or even pay attention to time in the midst of eternal agony) watched as a man who was still alive and yet not a man at all being brought down into the deepest level of damnation.

He was no ordinary soul, that much was certain for there was a light that emanated from within his form, surrounding him and repelling demons that tried to rush at him from all sides. Clearly, they recognized this man with eyes of piercing sapphire and forehead branded with the inverted cross and Lucifer's seal and all beheld the shadows of rising wings that flashed on the walls for the barest hint of an instant when a spurt of hellfire flared up.

Unlike many of the souls delivered into the abyss, he was not struggling. The man's jaw was clenched tight in obvious discomfort, his brow was furrowed and yet his step was steady and his gaze directed straight ahead as he was more or less dragged by means of chains connected to manacles encircling his limbs deeper into Hell.

Who would have ever imagined seeing an angel in Hell… twice?

"Well, kiddo. We meet again." Alastair moved forward, white eyes meeting and clashing with blue. The chief executioner and torturer for all the realms of damnation looked his newly acquired prize up and down, pleased. "This time though," he hissed, sidling up to the angel bound within mortal form, "this time, you're in _my_ territory."

* * *

"Come again?" The now-empty pie tin was tossed aside without ceremony and Dean leaned forward, features strained in anxiety. "Sex Diluco _what_?"

"Six Dawns and Six Hours," Sam quickly supplied, looking to Bobby for guidance as to what to say next. "It's- uh, it's Latin and it's a ritual that, when completed, breaks another seal."

Dean swallowed hard and looked down at his hands , clasping them tightly together to hide the fact that they were shaking worse than a high school boy waiting to pick up his prom date. _Six hundred possible seals, sixty-six that need to be broken and now this. Geez, what is it with evil and the number six?_ "Yeah? What is this ritual, anyway? And what does it have to do with Cas missing?"

"…a part of it requires the sacrifice of an angel."

In one swift, deft move, Dean reached out and snatched away the textbook, a difficult task to do with one hand given than the volume held more than two thousand pages. After nearly ripping several pages out and almost giving himself tendonitis, he balanced the book on his lap only to be confronted by letters strung together in what seemed to be nonsense phrases. The elder Winchester looked up. "It's in Latin," he said stupidly, stating the obvious. _Really hard Latin. _

"We've been working on a translation when you were asleep." Sam pulled out several legal pads covered with his lopsided scrawl. "From what we can figure, this ritual is divided up into different segments, each whose requirements have to be met before moving onto the next and they're…" He flipped through several pages of notes and blew out a lungful of air. "They're pretty extensive and intense."

In a response to the elder Winchester's silence, Bobby took up the lead. "As you've probably gotten from the name, it has to take place over a timespan of six days. On the first day, it says that a battle will be instigated between the forces from above and those hailing from below. At the end of the second day, the sacrifice will be betrayed into the hands of the wicked and branded into its vessel by means of Lucifer's seal, trapped and essentially, no more powerful than you or me."

"That's the mark you saw, Dean," Sam said quietly, observing how his brother's knuckles were going white; he was clenching his hands together so hard. "The text doesn't say much about what happens on the third day, only that _'temptation and tribulations will be presented as trials'_." He turned the legal pad sideways, squinting at his own unintelligible writing. It pretty much says the same thing for the fourth and fifth dawn except that '_the land will become one filled with wickedness to hasten the breaking of the angel's will. Once again, the temptation will be offered but he shall refuse, seeing the ritual into the sixth dawn.'_"

"What temptation?" Dean's voice was hoarse, his throat tight.

"Freedom in exchange for Lucifer's vessel."

Sam cast a glance at his brother. Dean was still sitting in the same position on the couch that he had assumed at the start of the narration, frozen in shock at what had just been revealed. It was quiet now, Bobby having fallen silent as the words uttered began to sink in with its terrible and tragic implications.

There was a knock at the door- firm and unrelenting, bordering on the edge of being a demand and Sam stood abruptly, grabbing the shotgun that leaned almost innocently against the wall. Inching closer to the door, he reached out for the knob as another rap of knuckles against wood rang out, this time with definite impatience. Suddenly feeling very much like he himself had been infected with Yellow Fever, he steeled himself, took a deep breath and flung open the door with such force that it bounced off the wall, swinging creakily on its hinges. He brought the shotgun up to chest level quickly, pointing it at the dark-haired girl who stood there looking irritated.

"You can put that down, Sam." He stared.

"Ruby? What are you doing here?"

Dean's eyes snapped upward from where they had been fixed firmly on the floorboards to glare at the girl who strode into the house like she owned it. Bobby mirrored his movements for it was clear that there was no lost love between him and the demon race, but Sam made a placating gesture, silently pleading for just a few seconds. Dean, although he noticed his brother's signal, made no such effort to reign in his disgust. _I'm not going to give this bitch the time of day let alone a chance to explain why she's here on our doorstep._

"Why the hell are you here?" he spat out, a demand far harsher than Sam's stunned inquiry. He half rose from his seat, hand wandering into his jacket pocket where his wandering fingers curled around several vials of holy water.

"I have information that you might be interested in, idiot." Ruby, while having switched vessels, still had a tongue that was sharper than ever when provoked. "I'll pretend to be intimidated, you can sit still and act like you've got some brains in thick skull of yours and we'll all play nice for a minute."

Dean's chin lowered, his jaw set and he glared upward through hard, emerald slit eyes cold as death and ready to shred the other to ribbons. "You wanna say something, then stop being coy and just say it, bitch."

Ruby's eyes narrowed. "Don't call me bitch," she hissed, eyes going black as her pupils expanded over the irises and the whites of her eyes.

"Aw, I'm sorry. Did I hurt your feelings… bitch?"

The demon made an angry move toward him but Dean whipped out one of the vials of holy water, flipping off the top with his thumb. _Don't even think about it._ Ruby drew away slightly, cowed. "Look," she said angrily, "Do you want to know this rumor I picked up about your angel or not?"

Dean's brow furrowed at the diction. _My angel? Since when did he become __my__ angel? Sure, he pulled me out of Hell and all, but still…_ "More demon whispers, huh?" he muttered sarcastically.

Sam took the chance to jump in on the tense exchange. "What did you hear?"

The three men were floored with the words that came out of the girl's mouth next. "That land filled with wickedness your little book's talking about? Where else could that be but Hell? You boys are moving into the fifth dawn." Ruby nodded out the window where the sun was slowly rising up over the horizon, bathing the land in crimson and hues of blood red.

Dean literally flew out of his seat and grabbed her.

With a sudden swiftness and ferocity that he had never experienced or exuded before, the hunter seized the demon by the throat in a grip hard enough to bruise, mind whirling at a hundred miles per hour. In a towering rage, he slammed her back into the nearest wall, the heat in his veins overflowing like an uncontrollable flood.

"Who did it, huh?" he growled, not caring that he was almost definitely cutting off her air supply, not caring that she had helped them before in the past, not caring that Sam was calling his name and trying to pull him off the demon. "Who has the power to do this?" Dean held the image he had drawn of the brand an inch away from Ruby's face. "Answer me!" he roared, shaking her hard until her teeth chattered.

"Dean!" Sam was amazed at his brother's strength. Ruby's feet were kicking half a foot off the floor and still Dean showed no indication of letting go, his face frozen in a mask of fury. "Bobby, help me!" With the older hunter's help, the two of them managed to pry Dean away and hold him back as Ruby collapsed in a heap, gasping for breath.

"You haven't answered me," Dean said coldly, no remorse in his eyes as he drilled the demon with a glare that could have melted the sun. Ruby glared up at him, eyes shifting to black again.

"Who else, asshole?" she spat in return, contemptuous venom lacing her words. "One of his own kind."

Two seconds passed as the news sunk in and then Dean shook off the hands that were loosely restraining him, swearing in words that would have made even the most foul-mouthed demon flush. "Uriel," he somehow ground out from in between gritted teeth. "I knew it. That goddamn son of a bitch-"

"Didn't do it," Ruby interjected, pushing herself up off the floor. She ignored Sam's desperate shake of his head and mouthing _no_ and stared into those cold panes of emerald. "It was your girl Anna."

_A/N: I think Ruby's awesome; she's an interesting character and the dynamic she displays as being a demon who's aiding the side of good really intrigues me (although I really preferred Katie Cassidy's performance over the new actress, so that's how I wrote her here). Let me know what you think!_


	5. Fifth Dawn

_Disclaimer: Supernatural and all its affiliates belong to Eric Kripke_

The church was a majestic building. All imposing towers and iron wrought crosses on the outside, ornamented with ostentatious stained-glass windows which captured the light and sent soft blues, yellows, pinks and greens scattering everywhere. On the inside, it was just as formidable, except it wasn't so much the grand, arched ceiling or the way the sparse light glared on gold foil inlayed trinkets and statues as it was the way the interior seemed so utterly dark, cold, and dead.

Now Dean Winchester realized why he never believed in a God before. It was because of places like this, places that supposedly were safe havens from the realities of the world where a loving savior was there to take anyone and everyone into his arms-but it ultimately ended up being nothing more than empty caverns devoid of all life. He never set foot upon grounds that claimed to be consecrated by everything pure and holy; he never put his faith in anything besides his own two hands, his father's word (when John had still been alive) and his brother.

So what was he doing here, a lone figure huddled over in the middle of a hard, wooden pew that hurt his tailbone, muttering nonsense to himself as he tried to rationalize arguments in his mind, all the while hoping for a miracle?

"_It was your girl Anna."_

Dean leaned over so far that his forehead touched his knees, weaving his fingers into his short hair and gripping tight until his scalp burned because as much as he wanted to get Ruby's words out of his head and discount them as just more babbling from the mouth of demon scum, he couldn't. Sure, he had tried punching the demon's teeth in for her but somewhere beyond the ire and stubborn remnants of affection that were buried deep inside his chest for the redheaded girl lay the seedlings of the stark, bare-boned reality. He didn't know how or why, but he knew it was true.

_How could I've been so stupid?_ Dean scrubbed at his world-weary features. He was sure he looked like hell but as of right now, he couldn't have cared less. Did his part in letting Anna go mean that he also had a hand in what was happening to Castiel? The more he thought back upon it, the clearer the image of the figure standing over the angel's prone body became and he could see the dark red hair, the hazel eyes that no longer held innocence and purity but a glint far more sinister that was reflected in the smirk curving her pink lips as well. _I __am__ an idiot._

The hunter raised his head and his eyes strayed upward, fixing upon the marble-carved crucifix hanging on the wall above the alter at the front of the chapel and instant, insurmountable frustration and anger swelled up within his chest and erupted from his throat in the form of a desperate shout.

"_WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT FROM ME?!!"_

Dean staggered forward like a drunken man, unable to see straight; he was so incensed and having finally found an outlet that Sam wasn't here to say no to, he let it all out. "I never wanted this responsibility!" He railed, gesticulating wildly with his arms. "I didn't ask to be dragged out of Hell, I didn't want this weight that's been dropped on top of _my_ shoulders! What gave you the right to put me in this position?!"

He slammed his hand against a wooden pew to emphasize his words. "If you're up there somewhere, if there even is a God, what's your freakin' deal, huh?!! Are you just gonna sit up there and watch as Lillith breaks all the seals and unleashes the apocalypse upon all the poor bastards down here, as one of your faithful warriors who calls you his Father gets ripped to shreds over and over again? WHAT KIND OF A FATHER ARE YOU??!!!"

He stopped within a couple meters of the alter itself, suddenly out of steam and he leaned against the railing surrounding the table which held the wheaten bread and grape wine for communion, head bowed. Castiel's words, as if from eons ago, rang in his ears in the resettling silence of the church after his own yells had stopped bouncing off the fragile stained glass windows.

"_In the coming months you will have more decisions to make. I don't envy the weight that is on your shoulders, Dean. I truly don't."_

_Is this another test? Is this what would be considered 'battlefield conditions'?_ Dean screwed his eyes shut and bit down on his lower lip so hard that he tasted the familiar coppery warmth of blood. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. He had read Revelations the other day. Angels were supposed to be all-powerful and full of vengeance, ready to deliver God's wrath upon the evils of the earth with their seven trumpets and seven bowls or whatever. Of course he hadn't really expected the stereotypical fat cherubs with halos and wings, but he did have somewhat of a preconceived notion of what he thought angels were supposed to be like. They weren't supposed to die. They weren't supposed to get dragged down into Hell to become the plaything for demons after being betrayed by one of their own.

_Goddamn it._ He sunk to his knees, face buried in his hands and for the first time since childhood when his mother used to make him recite those familiar bedtime nursery rhymes, Dean Winchester closed his eyes, clumsily made the sign of the cross- was it right shoulder, left shoulder, forehead and then chest or the other way around? - and tried to pray.

* * *

"Thanks for letting us come on such short notice." Sam sat down in the straight-backed chair, running his fingers through his hair. The dark-haired woman turned away from where she'd been standing at the widows, closing the curtains to shut out the light that she could not see.

"Anytime, Grumpy." Pamela flicked damp chocolate strands of her hair away from her face and grinned as she maneuvered past the objects in her path without tripping once. "Where's Bashful?"

"Uh… at church."

The psychic made a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat and tilted her head slightly in his direction, giving him the strange feeling that she could see his face perfectly. Here in the familiarity of her own home, she didn't bother with the dark sunglasses and her sightless eyes riveted firmly with his and Sam couldn't help but squirm slightly at the white, replacement plastic orbs that filled her eye sockets.

"Your brother doesn't strike me as the church-going type," Pamela shrugged. "But then again I guess there was a lot I didn't pick up on before-"

"Pamela, you don't have to do this if you don't want to." Bobby interjected, but not unkindly as he took a seat at the table. He and Sam exchanged a brief glance for there really was no one other than this proclaimed 'best damn psychic in the state' that could even attempt glimpsing into a world invisible to the human eye. Besides, neither of them really wanted to risk someone else losing their eyes- even if Castiel was bound in the vessel that Dean had dubbed as his holy tax accountant visage.

"You said the angel needed help, right?"

"Yeah."

"Look," Pamela's voice shed some of its bold spunk and took on a softer tone. "If thanking him means I have to go down into the Pit for a visit, I'm all for it. The sneaky bastard took my eyes, sure. But he gave me back so much more…"

_She sat desolately in the solitude of her room and for the first time in her life, Pamela Barnes was surrounded by utter, terrible darkness and overwhelming silence. Not only had her physical ability to see been stripped away from her, so too had all of her psychic powers vanished. The whispers she had learned to heed when necessary and brush aside as mere nuances when frivolous in nature had not brushed past her senses in days. Not since what the doctors had labeled a freak accident. Now she knew what being 'normal' felt like, and she hated it. _

_Hesitantly, gingerly, she reached up a hand to the bandages still encasing her face. Her eyes- or what was left of them, anyway- itched. There were treatments out there for replacement eye surgeries but they would be of little use to her given that all the nerves inside the interior of her occipital caverns had been incinerated into nothingness. No, she would have to spend the rest of her days miserable, useless to those who had depended upon her gift before, and blind. The urge to cry made her throat close up with a giant sob, but goddamn it, she wasn't even capable of shedding tears anymore. A soft hitching of her breath broke the silence and Pamela buried her face in her hands. _

"_Pamela."_

_The utterance came out of nowhere, immediately to her left and she nearly jumped a foot off the bed and couldn't helping thinking at the same time that she should have been able to sense the presence. It was a man's voice, kind and with a fine baritone quality that would have left any other woman swooning solely at the sound of it but she wasn't in the mood._

"_Who are you?" she demanded, scooting off the edge of the bed to put some distance between herself and this unknown assailant who as of this moment hadn't yet laid a hand on her but had somehow gotten into her house nonetheless. _

_There was a soft whisper of movement and suddenly she could sense the man standing beside her and he took a hold of her arm, sitting her back down on the bed. She considered struggling against the rather firm hold but while she definitely could have kicked his ass had she the ability to see, she wasn't so sure of her skills now considering her current predicament. "Don't be afraid, Pamela." _

_That voice, that voice! She knew where she heard it before, though the last time the whisper ghosted past her ears it had been in a more ethereal tone, the likes of which she had never perceived before. Anger, hot and undulating twisted inside her chest; she savagely wrenched her elbow away. "Castiel," she hissed. "Haven't you already punished me enough for sneaking a peak at you?" _

_A sigh. "It was never my intention to take away your sight. I warned you-"_

"_Yeah, yeah." Pamela bit off harshly, waving away what she supposed was the closest thing to an apology as she was ever going to get. "What do you want?"_

_He took her hand, the skin was warm and his palm was square, slightly calloused and had a surprisingly gentle grip. "Do you wish to see again?"_

_The inquiry struck deep into her core and Pamela felt a chill crawl up her spine. Was it possible for such a miracle? Quickly she shook herself back to her senses. No, of course not. It was impossible. "Sure. Are you going to take my ears in exchange?" she asked sarcastically, aware of her rather nasty tone but not really caring. _

"_Have faith, daughter of Eve." His hand squeezed hers comfortingly and then two fingers were pressing lightly against her eyes beneath the white strip of bandages. Pamela shrank back, partially in fear and partially due to the tingling, itching sensation that was growing almost impossible to bear. It wasn't nearly as painful as when holy fire had ripped away her sight, but it came pretty damn close. With a choked cry, she jerked her hand away and grabbed at the gauze, ripping and tearing it away from her face with something akin to raw desperation…_

"_What have you done to me?!" The cool night air brushed against her skin like a lover's caress; she opened her eyes and fell back onto the bed, a gasp slipping past her lips._

_Instead of the overwhelming darkness that threatened to swallow her whole in its grasp, she found herself surrounded by a world of grey shadows and silhouettes in shades of white- but then she set her eyes upon him, and stared unabashedly at what she had only gotten a mere glimpse of before the blackness had settled in, at the most beautiful being she had ever seen. _

_He stood in front of her, composed of white blazing fire and pure holiness. Large wings stretched outward to their full span and light illuminated his entire form, shining outward from his face and driving away the darkness. The full glory of the warrior of the Lord filled the room with an otherworldly presence and she stood slowly, transfixed by the piercing sapphire gaze that held her own empty sockets and she breathed his name. _

"_Castiel." _

_She could've sworn he smiled and in a near-blinding (no pun intended) flash of light, the angel disappeared. As the stillness of the night settled in again, Pamela brought her arm down and away from where she'd been shielding her face and lifted her eyelids slowly, hardly daring to hope-_

_This time, she really did burst into tears. "Oh God…" she wept, tear ducts suddenly functional again and the droplets rolled down her cheeks. "Thank you… thank you so much…" _

"Pamela?" Sam shook the psychic's shoulder gently. "You okay?"

She shook herself out of her stupor and turned toward him. Pamela could see the other's puppy-like brown eyes gazing worriedly at her even though the rest of his form was composed of swirling whites and the greys of energy and she sent him a dazzling smile. "Of course, Grumpy." She snapped her fingers and inhaled slowly. "Let's get started."

"You ready?"

"Every inch of me has been dipped in holy water, including my clothes and I've got my magic amulet and charms." She held up the crucifix hanging around her neck and dangled the pendant of St. Jude it on its chain. "All set."

"You'll get out of there if anything happens, right?" Bobby asked worriedly. She stopped in the midst of her chant and smirked at him.

"Don't worry. I've learned my lesson and it's not one I need to be taught again. I'll see you two in a bit."

* * *

They sat there for an undeterminable amount of time, sitting on either side of Pamela in a vain effort at protection. Sam honestly didn't know how he or Bobby would've tried defending her from Hell when she was there on her own in the spiritual realm or some mojo like that, but he was tense, ready for anything nonetheless.

As of right now, Pamela lay in the middle of the large seal drawn on the floor, looking for all the world like she was taking a nap. The St. Jude pendant and crucifix hung around her neck and multiple religious icons were surrounding her form, offering all the safety mere material objects of the tangible world could offer. Sam glanced at his surroundings for the thousandth time, by now having almost completely memorized the layout of the interior of Pamela's house.

"Are you sure she did the ritual right?"

Bobby gave him an exasperated look and Sam put his hands up in a placating gesture, backing off immediately. "Sorry, just making sure."

"Ya ijit," The older hunter said, albeit fondly, with a shake of his head. "You and your brother are two of a kind."

Sam fell silent, not quite sure how to respond. Was it a compliment? When he'd been a child, there had never really been anytime for innocence and naivety. What else was to be expected growing up in a family hunters? He scratched the back of his head sheepishly, contemplating Bobby's words.

John had never been around, and although he tried to find some sort of connection with his father when he was younger, he never subjected himself to blind obedience to the man's word like his brother had. Dean once claimed that doing anything and everything John said was evidence of being a good son, and acted accordingly- so Sam really had to wonder why he strived so hard to be like his older brother.

"So Dean went off to church, huh?"

"Yeah. Said he needed to think."

"If what Ruby said is true, than we don't have much time left." _Castiel doesn't have much time left._ "What did the translations say about what happens on the sixth day?"

A sharp gasp from Pamela cut off whatever reply Bobby may have been in the process of delivering and the two of them leaned forward but could do nothing for any disturbance would have broken the spell and yanked her out of Hell in the most painful way possible. Her frame stiffened and, hands fisting against the floorboards, her throat tightened as a horrified whisper flew past her lips-

"_Jesus Christ in heaven!"_

_

* * *

_

Rushing past the black smoke twisted into grotesque frames with leering faces that were demons and the wretched bland grey forms of the souls they tortured, Pamela flew toward the rack where she could see the glorious light of the angel bound within a human vessel, feet barely touching the ground. The thin film of holy water covering her entire frame kept the demons at bay but they hissed and spat at her as she charged forward blindly, all scattering away at the sight of the crucifix around her neck. Ignoring them and everything else around her for that matter, the psychic pulled the instrument of torture upon which its victim hung to a stop.

"Castiel?" With tenderness that she couldn't ever remember displaying before, Pamela cupped the sides of the entrapped angel's face and lifted his hanging head. There was no response. Her fingers went to the brand and traced the symbol, wiping away the blood and sweat staining his skin and for some reason she couldn't quite explain, she brought the crucifix up to her lips, murmured a small prayer and touched it against the angel's forehead. _Oh God, please…_

Eyelashes fluttered and then his intense blue gaze focused on her, weak and exhausted, and her heart broke for him, for this proud soldier of the Lord bound by chains of evil and stripped of his dignity as well as any and all hope. "Castiel?" she tried again.

He didn't speak because he couldn't but she heard his voice in her head, weary and nearly spent. _You should not be here._

"Neither should you," she countered immediately, hardly flinching when a demon who tried venturing closer was repelled. Pamela tried not to look down at his bloody mess of a vessel, but it was hard to ignore the meat hooks that dug into the skin and splayed muscles apart.

_Have faith, daughter of Eve. The plan is just._

She couldn't believe her ears- or in this case, her mental sense of audition. "You call _this_ just?" _And what exactly are you smoking?_

Castiel's jaw tightened in pain and he leaned his head back against the rack as if attempting communication was sapping too much of what little strength he had left. _The order of what is to be comes from heaven and that makes it just. If it is in His will, my Father will deliver me from the Pit._

"And if He doesn't?"

Pamela wanted to take the words back as soon as they left her mouth because the wounded look of pure agony he gave her at the thought of what she suggested was scarring. The angel's eyes closed and he gave a long, shuddering sigh, very much like the last breath of a dying man as his head fell limply against his chest and the light within him flickered dangerously.

Cold horror filled her and she reached out toward him again, only to be drawn backwards by some invisible force that wrapped its fingers around her and yanked forcibly, driving all the breath out of her lungs as she was dragged away from the exposed and vulnerable angel; the demons closed in with morbid amusement, eager to lay into their victim once again, and Pamela screamed out her protest.

"_No!"_

_

* * *

_

"Pamela? Pamela!" Someone was cradling her and shaking her shoulders firmly; and upon seeing Sam's worried brown gaze, she could hold it back no longer. Gripping his arm tightly to her chest as if it was the only stable thing in a world suddenly turned upside down and thrown helter-skelter, Pamela let the tears glide free.

_A/N: More to come? Eh… maybe? I'm running out of ideas, guys… please help me out here!_


	6. Darkness before Dawn

_A/N: You guys are the greatest. Thanks for keeping me going. This chapter was kind of hard to come up with, but I tried! I appreciate your feedback! _

_Disclaimer: Supernatural and all its affiliates belong to Eric Kripke._

Dean never really liked reading. It always seemed like more of a chore than a leisurely pastime to him, and that was part of the reason he was perfectly fine with letting Sam do all of the research when they were out and about all over the country, working jobs. Maybe it was the way books smelled; whenever he picked up a bound volume, no matter whether it happened to be a collection of poems by some dead white guy named Tennyson or an almanac on the occult, there was always a musty smell that wafted up toward his nostrils as he flipped through the pages, a smell that made his nose inadvertently crinkle.

Even though he didn't necessarily like being tucked away in some corner and devouring words as if they were air, he did read. Sometimes- meaning when he couldn't leave it all to Sam or when he had absolutely nothing else to do and was bored out of his mind.

Or when he was at the end of his rope and had no way of knowing how to tie a knot at the end of it, when he had no idea how much longer he could hold on. When he wasn't sure how much longer Castiel could hold out. And so he read.

"…_for waging war you need guidance, and for victory many advisors." _

He tossed the NIV onto the pew and watched its limp pages flew up a little with the flurry of movement before falling back down to the sides, remaining open. The spine on the volume was cracked and he noted the wrinkled quality of what had once been smooth, pristine sheets. Countless hands had turned the pages of this Bible before, numberless desperate hands had clutched its tattered old covers and kissed trembling lips to the spine, begging for counsel from up above as their salty tears splashed down onto the worn, stained pages.

_I'm so not gonna cry, but I could sure use some help down here._ Dean cast a skeptical glance up at the ostentatiously decorated upward arch of the ceiling before leaning forward with a heavy sigh, elbows on his knees and head bowed low. _Please?_

Only silence answered and, frustrated, the hunter got to his feet and approached the altar. Tired green eyes shone out of the darkness, fixing on the image of the crucifix as the leather soles of his beat up boots thumped against the floor, sounding ominously loud in the otherwise silent chapel. _Come on,_ he silently beseeched. _Tell me what to do._

No one could understand why he was willing to go so far to save this angel whose face he had never seen, whose real voice was one that he had never been able to hear without collapsing to the ground and bleeding out of his ears. But to Dean Winchester, none of that mattered.

"_Dean, you don't have to do this. You heard what Pamela said she saw; there's nothing we can do now. It's out of our hands!"_

"_I owe it to them to-"_

"_You don't owe shit to anyone, least of all these angels who don't even care enough to rescue one of their own. Damn it Dean, stop trying to be a hero!"_

"_But I'm not like them, Sam! I'm not about to let this six days sacrifice bullshit happen to the one who pulled me out of Hell." Emerald eyes met and clashed with brown ones steeled with resolve. Sam's jaw worked as if trying to pry itself apart to speak._

"_Just before your contract expired, you told me that I was going to let you go to Hell because there was nothing that I could do. That was then, this is now and I'm telling you right now that you're not going back into the Pit. I won't let you." _

_The two brothers glared at each other, battling in a silent struggle of will. It was fortunate that there was a table and a couch in between the Winchesters or the situation could've come to blows. "What, are you gonna stop me?" Dean challenged, secretly hoping that his brother would back off, but no such luck. Sam jerked his head sharply in some semblance of a nod, not once breaking the mini-staring contest. After all, he'd learned that 'damn straight I am, and what're you going to do about it?' look from the best. _

_Dean threw his hands up and pivoted sharply on his heel, grabbing his leather jacket from where it hung over the back of one of the chairs surrounding the kitchen table and slammed the door hard on his way out, storming away from the pained expressions of his brother and the man he himself proclaimed to be the closest thing to a father, not wanting to see that look in their eyes, a look that he himself knew all too well but could never bring himself to admit-_

_Fear. _

His knees hit the chapel floor but he barely winced as twin spikes of pain shot up from the joints and radiated up his thighs and Dean inhaled deeply, willing whatever cosmic powers or higher deities existed up there somewhere in the stratosphere to listen, goddamn it, to hear his prayer. His hands were fisted at his sides instead of being folded neatly in his lap because he still wasn't sure what type of protocol had to be followed when asking something from the man upstairs, but his eyes were screwed tightly shut and he was hurling the words upward mentally to whoever was willing to listen and give a reply.

_If you're not going to send anyone down there to save him, if all of your soldiers are too busy being bigger picture type guys… then at least give me the chance to repay this debt. Let me do it._

_

* * *

_

Some humans claimed that pain was physical discomfort or suffering caused by illness or injury, or perhaps it was more along the lines of mental suffering or distress. Suffering was considered by some to be merely an illusion of the senses while others claimed that it was weakness leaving the body. Castiel had no idea which definition or connotation was the most correct when applicable to mortals, but what he was enduring right now… this, _this_ was agony.

What had been offered by the representation of the cross when it had been pressed against his vessel's skin was nothing short of the greatest relief any soul could have ever hoped to find when bound in the depths of the abyss. The angel had been able to sense remnants of the Father's holy presence and blessing in the small crucifix and he held onto the light for as long as he could, letting it warm his soul and tried to fix his mind solely on the grace of the Lord.

_Crux sancta sit mihi lux. _

The repose did not last long though. Castiel felt hot breath on his face; he involuntarily tensed for he knew the blackness of the twisted creature that stood before him and the darkness clawed at the edges of his grace despite his feeble efforts at defense, almost as tangible as the steel fingers that grabbed his jaw and forced his head up.

"You trying my patience. I'll say it only once more." Alastair punctuated each oily hiss with the tightening of another screw on the rack until the frame itself groaned aloud though the victim stretched out upon it would utter no such cry. "Give. Me. Lucifer's. Vessel."

The demon locked eyes with the angel, a smirk playing over his features. Truth be told, while he was getting just a little impatient with just how slowly the dawns seemed to be approaching, he was having a grand old time with his new toy. It had been years since Hell's Chief Torturer had the pleasure of working to extinguish the holy light within one of his holy counterparts and there was nothing he loved more than watching the steely resolve and hope fading away from those headstrong sapphire blue eyes.

Castiel was consciously aware of the tendons and muscles stretching to their limits within the all too easily breakable frame of his vessel and the angel shut his eyes tightly in indescribable torment against the promises of the immoral and corruption in Alastair's black orbs, choosing blindness over temptation and the fulfillment of his duty as a warrior of the Lord over giving into the servants of the Fallen One.

The angel's whisper was barely audible, like a mere breath of air in the maelstrom of torture happening around him, but it held all the loyalty and staunch faith one word could carry: "_Never._"

* * *

"The Lord hears your prayers, Dean Winchester. And He who is the Creator of all things always pays heed to those who call upon Him."

He started, jumped to his feet and tried to turn at the same time, only to succeed in executing a strange one-hundred and eighty degree hopping motion due to the pins and needles striking his nerves as blood rushed back to his cramped legs. Dean gathered his bearings and turned to face the owner of the quiet, gentle, and almost effeminate sounding voice that nonetheless held a lilting quality that belied the conviction behind the words.

Sitting there on the first pew was a young blonde man in a white business suit with a gold silk tie, gazing steadily back at him as if they were merely chatting about the weather in an abandoned chapel at around eleven at night. He held the Bible that the hunter had previously tossed aside in his slim and deceptively elegant looking hands, thumbing through the well-read pages and Dean couldn't help but remember that the last time he had spoken the words he was about to pose to this new stranger, the receiver of the inquiry had also been interestedly flipping through a book.

"Who are you?"

The reply to his demand was calm. The young man raised his head, a shaft of moonlight casting an unnatural light across his face, giving his youthful features an eerie glowing appearance. "I am Gabriel, messenger of the Lord."

Maybe it was the stress of all that had happened in the last week and all that was still happening, but whatever the reason, Dean's features grew strained, mask-like across his face and he regarded the other with more caution tinged with the gaze of a man spent than actual suspicion and he issued a rather childish ultimatum. "Prove it."

Gabriel stood and that simple action in and of itself seemed to make him seem twice as intimidating. There was a slight frown creasing his brow and he sighed with a piteous shake of his head. "Oh ye of little faith," he murmured before opening his mouth and… the Church windows shattered.

_Son of a bitch!_ Dean pressed his palms against his ears but couldn't stop the vibrations that rode the air from assaulting his eardrums as the same high-pitched, ear-splitting shriek that had brought him to his knees blasted all around him. When what sounded like white noise finally subsided, he propped himself up against the wooden pew among the fallen shattered glass and glared as best as he could with warm crimson wetness running down his jaw from his ear. "Is that how all of you talk?" he growled.

The angel watched him with an inquisitive tilt of his head. "Yes. Were you not aware?"

He remembered that head tilt signifying insight mixed with confusion but this gaze held no compassion- only cool blankness resided behind a face that was equally blank and he shook his head hard, pinching the bridge of his nose. _Forget it._ "Gabriel, huh?" Dean picked himself back up slowly since the room was still going in an out of focus and approached the other, still warily keeping his eyes on the man. "And what message do you have for me?"

The smooth, almost porcelain-fine features creased in worry and darkened somewhat. If he didn't know better, Dean would have categorized the downcast expression that crossed Gabriel's face as one of sorrow. "_Sex Diluculo ac Hora._ Erelong the sixth dawn shalt be upon us and the seal must not be broken. Lucifer must not rise."

"So you guys are going to finally get off your asses and go save him?" He tried to sound annoyed, but couldn't disguise the hope in his voice. It was obvious who the 'him' was, and Gabriel's silver-green eyes flickered to the floor uneasily. Dean felt his gut clench tight. _You're shitting me._

Previously dampened irritation was bubbling dangerously to the surface and instead of erupting like a shaken bottle of soda, Dean's teeth clenched tight and his chest tightened. His exhale was a long, strained effort at keeping calm even as something hotter than hellfire shot through his veins. "What's your boss playing at?" he managed to grind out, biting off each and every word. "I read it," he tried to speak steadily but couldn't conceal his increasing fury. His hand shook with the intensity of the feeling as he pointed in accusation at the Bible still lying harmlessly on the pew.

"I read it. I read your boss's oh so holy Word, and it said to 'Rescue those being led away to death; hold back those staggering toward slaughter'. What happened to all that 'Word being a lamp upon my feet and a light unto my path' shit?" he hissed, sounding for all the world like a cornered snake. "If there even is a God, then I'm not convinced he's anything more than a kid with an ant farm who likes to think he's in control."

Gabriel's face was turned away. Was it in shame? Dean couldn't tell.

"None of the Lord's warriors can venture into the realm of the Son of Perdition except at the Father's command." Was the hesitant answer. A pause passed, pregnant with grave implications. "But _you_ can."

* * *

Sam glared at the textbook, pencil clenched so tightly within his grasp that it was a wonder the writing instrument hadn't splintered into pieces already. The Latin words were shifting in and out of focus in a haze and at long last he pushed the text away, not caring when it fell to the floor with a noisy thump.

He didn't know what to do. Of course he didn't want Castiel to have to go through such a terrible fate, but logically, there was no other option that any of them could act upon to prevent the seal from breaking. Sure, they were hunters and had more knowledge of the supernatural and upon nearly all matters of the occult, but as far as Sam knew, there was no way to send someone to Hell on a rescue mission.

_I didn't even know there was a way to pull a condemned soul out of the Pit until Dean showed up again. _The angels had shown no sign of interfering on Castiel's behalf and there was no sane demon powerful enough that would be willing to relinquish the angel; not even Ruby could be of use now. They were flying blind and Sam was ready to reluctantly give up.

Dean however, was unsatisfied with letting come what may, if the argument that had occurred when he'd come back from the Church was any indication. The younger Winchester had never seen the other so distraught and the fear and desperation that was driving him _had_ to be unhealthy. He hardly recognized his brother anymore- and more than anything else, the thought of losing him again struck deep to his core.

With a defeated sigh, Sam pulled the legal pad closer, looking back over the hastily scribbled down translations, blue ink squirming across the landscape of garish yellow embellished with red lines. His gaze traveled over the descriptions of the sacrifice and then flicked up to the clock sitting on top of the fireplace mantel.

11:17 PM.

Dawn was at 6:30 AM.

He slouched down into the couch, sinking back against the cushions and tried to decide what to do with himself, bringing the notepad up close to his face and scanning the barely intelligible words-

-when he suddenly shot upwards and off the couch, banging his shins into the coffee table but not caring, his eyes were too focused on a certain phrase that hadn't caught his attention till now; his eyes were wide and staring, filled with terror and dread at the words he didn't, _couldn't_ believe.

"…_and the son of Adam that hast been borne pure but whost drunken of blood most unclean shalt be taken as the new vessel of the Prince of the Earth, and he shalt consume that which shalt be taken from the sacrifice…"_

"Sam?"

He turned quickly at the voice which before had been full of lightness, innocence, and yes, purity. A flash of nefariously mischievous hazel eyes, a fall of dark red hair and smile so cold, so conniving that it made even this battle-hardened warrior shudder was all that filled his vision before something that felt like an ice pick stabbing through his forehead with one deep thrust sent him careening backwards, arms flailing wildly, windmill-like as his head crashed against the mantle and Sam fell like a length of timber.

The clock wobbled unsteadily on its stand before pitching forward and crashing down next to the fallen form, its glass face shattering, cogs and gears grinding to a stop and hands jerked askew from the impact.

11:19 PM.

* * *

Contrary to popular belief, most people actually don't gape with open mouths but had Dean Winchester's jaw been anymore slack, it would've been nearly touching the floor. He closed his mouth with a sharp click upon the realization of how foolish he must've looked and he cleared his throat once, twice. Trying to speak. "No," he squeaked out, sounding like a dog's deflated chew toy and he swallowed hard. Trying to somehow disprove the angel who stood before him, trying to do something, _anything_ to refute the words he'd just heard.

Unable to speak clearly, he opted for a sharp shake of his head. _It's not true. That can't be true. _The admonishing look he got in return didn't deter him and Dean only shook his head harder, world spinning around and around. "I don't believe it."

"You have already seen it; how can you deny the truth? In your dreams-"

"Well they were wrong, alright?" Dean interjected harshly, fingers twitching to curl into defensive fists to slam themselves into the nearest tangible object, which just so happened to be this seemingly harmless individual in front of him, telling him what he didn't want to hear. "They were just dreams, now I know that aspirin and scotch aren't so great together."

"Dean Winchester, you were selected by the Almighty himself to carry out the tasks that must be done and to do so you must accept-"

"Sam is NOT going to become Lucifer's vessel, _GODDAMN_ IT!!" This time, Dean's fist did swing wildly, making solid impact with the hard oak of the altar, skin of the knuckles splitting and smearing blood onto the engraved cross there. Silence reigned supreme for a beat. Then, Gabriel's voice broke the stillness: stern, disapproving and without the least bit of pity despite the gravity of his words.

"Your brother has already been taken."

Dean felt the words hitting him like invisible bullets and he staggered backwards, back hitting the altar and sliding down to sit amongst the multicolored glass littering the dusty, unpolished floor- a parody of elegance and depravity. Iron bands were wrapping around his chest in a vice-like grip and squeezing the air out of him; he was getting dizzy and he couldn't breathe- oh God, he couldn't breathe.

_Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale… damn it, Sammy. I'm sorry. _

Gabriel watched the man's shoulders shake and stood there impassively as harsh, labored, near convulsive gasps echoed in every corner of the chapel. He had received the Father's command and was now waiting to act upon them. Presently, Dean raised his head and fixed red, swollen but hardened eyes upon the angel who was still there, still looking at him with…expectancy?

"I don't care," the hunter rasped hoarsely, "I don't care if you can't do anything without your God's command, I don't care if you're not supposed to even sneeze without him giving you permission to, _I don't give a shit._ And I don't care if I'm defying both Heaven and Hell. No more waiting around, no more games, no more praying or operating on faith alone." Dean stood, face set with resolve and vengeance burning in his smoldering eyes. "We're doing this _my_ way now."

The angel nodded his head once. He had received the Father's command and had now been given the order.

"_We're doing this my way now."_

Six words. Six dawns. Six hours.

Somewhere in the distance, a bell heralded midnight.

The battle was about to begin.

_A/N: Sorry for the lateness of this chapter… illness plus tons of work makes for one very sluggish imagination. Hoped all of you liked it!_


	7. Hour One

_Disclaimer: Supernatural and all its affiliates belong to Eric Kripke._

It was worse than a concussion. _Way_ worse. Sure the nausea, dizziness and splitting headache were there, but merely labeling how he felt right now as a mild traumatic brain injury… somehow just didn't quite cut it. Instead, if he had to put it into words, he would say it felt like someone had taken a hold of his skull and used it as a bowling ball. The only time he could ever remember feeling like this was when a shtriga tried feeding off him as a child. _Oh, the memories._

With a groan, Sam righted himself- and immediately fell forward, jolted flat onto his face.

_What the-_ Groggily, he shook his head and tried to peer around himself in the pitch-black darkness, to avail. Once he somewhat had a good sense of which way was up and which way was down, he carefully pushed himself up, leaning back against a wall so he wouldn't fall. _Oh._ So that was why he couldn't quite get to his feet.

The ground was _moving._

_Wait a minute._ He coughed dryly, suddenly aware of the dirty rag stuck in his mouth, the rough ropes looped around his wrists and the realization wasn't so much like a slap in the face as it was one of those moments in which the inclination was to groan aloud in frustration and annoyance. _Not again._

Slowly, cautiously, Sam lowered his ear to the floor of the moving truck. The driver was pretty much ignoring any and every sign announcing the speed limit on the side of the road; he had to be going at least eighty, perhaps even more. The road was smooth, and traveling this fast on this type of terrain could only mean one thing- the interstate. _Well, this is just fantastic_, he thought sullenly, thumping the heel of his boots roughly against the floor.

He had no idea how long it'd been since he'd last been in the land of the waking and as a result, there was no way for him to guess as to who had him tied up and thrown in the back of their moving truck like some rich kid being held for ransom, or where these people were taking him. He tried to come up with a cognitive map of all the interstates spanning form Bobby's house and the salvage yard in South Dakota, but his head throbbed dully, prevented concentration.

The last thing he remembered, he'd been in the living room, reading over the translations regarding the seal and feeling like the butt of some huge and terribly unfunny joke upon the discovery that _he_, Sam Winchester, was the intended vessel for Lucifer: the Son of Perdition, the Prince of Darkness, the original enemy of God.

His defeated sigh filled the empty interior space of the box around him and Sam hung his head. Having grown up with a man like John Winchester for a father who'd given him a .44 when he'd said there was something under his bed hardly made Sam a sniveling weakling prone to self-pity. But as of right now, all he could do when there in the back of the moving truck, trussed up like a turkey, was thinking about what shit luck he had.

_Mom… Jessica… then Dad and Dean. _Dean. His brother who had made a deal to deliver his own soul for the slaughter just to save his little brother's, his brother who had willingly gone and accepted the worst torture imaginable just so that he would be able to live... Sam's eyes filled with tears that he quickly blinked away. _And all of this, for what? Just because some demon decided to handpick me for his twisted games by bleeding into my mouth?_

He wondered if all this would have happened if he had never been born in the first place. Would his parents still be alive and well, living in Kansas and growing old together? Would the family business ever become that of hunters who crept around at night, armed with shotguns filled with salt and vials of holy water? Would Dean have finally settled down with a girl and started a family? A smile crept onto his face at that. _Not likely, that last one._

Vaguely, his thoughts meandered over to the reason why he was stuck here and had he glared any harder, his eyes would have burned a hole directly through the side of the moving truck. _Anna._ Her hazel eyes and small, laughing mouth mocked him and now when he thought back upon it, she always seemed to have been mocking him; those backward glances and little smirks held much more than he or Dean could have far as he could tell, she was basically working with the demons now. But why would a former angel want to align herself with Lucifer, even if she had fallen?

Sam banged his head back against the wall and immediately regretted the action as bile rose up in the back of his throat and he pressed his forehead against his knees, breathing deeply but still the anger burned bright and unyielding. _For someone who wanted nothing more than the ability to feel, that girl is one cold-hearted unfeeling bitch._

_

* * *

_

Small feet crossed steadily over the dry, unkempt grass, walking through the fractured skeletal frame of railroad tracks that ran parallel to the cemetery and moving into the hallowed ground itself. Shadows danced over the old and crumbling gravestones that had long ago succumbed to the elements and now were mere slabs of slate among the weeds, names and dates of those buried beneath the earth lost forever to the ravages of time.

The figure stopped in front of what looked to be a rundown crypt and may have been passed by tourists or lost travelers who simply dismissed it as such- but those who held knowledge of what it really was knew the importance of the iron railroad lines surrounding the old cowboy cemetery, they knew of the devil's trap whose lock could only be fitted with a key in the form of a gun that was now lost.

A white hand reached out, slim fingers brushing against the symbol and instantly, the silent Wyoming night was shattered. The ground shook, iron and steel creaked and the earth heaved, as if trying to expel something from its bowels and with an extraordinary cracking sound, the gates of Hell flew open.

There was an unnatural bellow, lasting for only one spectacular instant and a limp form was unceremoniously tossed up from the depths beyond, landing heavily on the ground and staining the grass a deep crimson. With the flick of a slender wrist, the doors of the portal to the netherworld slammed shut again and the pale-skinned girl bent down to inspect her prize with a contemplative tilt of her head. She reached out a hand to callously shove the prone figure onto his back as her other hand rose into the air, fingers snapping once to alert the two shadows who stood on the other side of the railroad tracks, a gurney between the two of them.

"Oh, Castiel." Anna said with a sigh, surveying the angel bound within his vessel who lay at her feet. "They made such a mess of you. At least your face is still easy on the eyes." Long fingers pushed back blood-caked hair from the branded forehead and dragged across a deep gash that spanned the length of the sweat-slicked cheek. "But I have to admit one thing…" Her voice lowered as she bent her head so her mouth was right next to his ear, breathy and seductive- "you do look downright _ravishing_ in red."

Sharp, penetrating blue eyes snapped open and cracked lips parted to utter three words from a parched throat: _"Vade, creatura maledicte." _

The hard right hook struck with amazing ferocity and startling swiftness like the attack of a rattlesnake. Neither of the two men that were striding across the cemetery grounds had time to react before the girl was landing hard on her rear end with a cry of surprise, pale cheek turning red and smarting at the unexpected blow that had been delivered with surprising strength for an individual in the injured man's condition. Castiel was struggling to sit up, features contorted in inexpressible pain and also in disgust toward the fallen angel who was also on the ground, fear dawning upon her pretty features as she took in the other's gaze-

Suddenly, a booted foot slammed into Castiel's exposed torso, knocking him flat on his back and the shoes drew back and swung forward again, landing repeated blows. The leather tongues were quickly turning from dull brown into bright red as the victim writhed helpless on the ground, too weak to defend himself but enduring the torment without sound. Anna, having now gotten to her feet, stood by watching with an almost lazy expression before finally calling the demons to halt their actions.

"We're wasting time," she said sharply, turning swiftly on her heel and striding across the cemetery and to the modified ambulance that was idling at the side of the road. "Let's go."

One of the demons dragged Castiel upright, sneering into the angel's exhausted features before slamming him onto the gurney and pulling the leather straps hard across the cot and buckling them tight, the other slammed his fist across the angel's face, snapping his head sharply to the side, stabbing a syringe into his neck and depositing the entire barrel of unidentifiable liquid. "Something to keep the prick alive," came the harsh growl.

Every jarring action and abrupt movement sent fire radiating through Castiel's form and he closed his eyes tightly, trying to ignore the pain as he tried to draw in the light purity and goodness from all the creations around him, but he couldn't. Not in his condition; after being bound in his vessel, tormented in the abyss and then pulled out of the realm of evil back into this world… he could barely remember the grace of the Father.

Not even his soul had the ability to cry out as the drugs overrode his vessel's ability to function and his consciousness slipped, leaving him wrapped up in the throes of an overwhelming darkness.

* * *

"You're saying that Sam is going to become Lucifer's vessel?" came the incredulous question as it was posed for perhaps the fifth time in the past ten minutes.

"No, the damn textbook says that Sam is _supposed_ to become Lucifer's vessel, but there's no way in hell I'm going to let that happen," Dean replied coolly, calmly as he screwed the top back on another canteen filled to the brim with holy water before reaching for the shotgun and the multiple canisters filled with salt littered on the poorly-lit kitchen tabletop.

Bobby watched him, dumbfounded. "Now that don't make a lick of sense."

"Tell me about it," was the muttered response and the older hunter shook his head.

"Boy, listen to me. Your angel is in _Hell_. Now if you're sure that the demons aren't going to pull your brother down into the hotbox, then how are they going to complete this ritual of theirs? There ain't gonna be nothing left of that angel to sacrifice!"

_Your angel is in Hell…_ Dean set down the shotgun before he gave into the urge to hurl it across the room and leaned his weight against the table, willing his frazzled nerves into calmness before trusting himself to speak. "There's no doubt that those sons of bitches tortured Cas down in the Pit, but it wasn't to the point of death 'cause the demons can't repair him. He was dragged down in his vessel, in a physical body, not as a soul. And they aren't going to risk killing him 'cause I have a feeling that would seriously piss off their boss."

Bobby furrowed his brow, still skeptical. "And why change locations at all? If they already had him down there…"

"…_why go through the trouble of bringing Cas back up out of Hell?" Dean kept his gaze trained steadily on the floor, shards of stained glass shifting in and out of focus in his vision. _

_There was a whisper of movement of starched linen and the finely tailored suit as Gabriel too leaned forward, resting his chin atop long, almost spindly interlaced fingers. "It's… complicated." _

"_So explain it to me." The angel shot him a sharp look and Dean held up his hands in defense. "Hey, look buddy- I have every right to know." _

_A heavy sigh. Then, "An angel's grace is what connects him with the Father. It is consecrated, pure… holy. It is what makes us different from all the other creations here upon earth; it is what gives us the ability to be warriors of the Lord, to do His work." Gabriel uncrossed his hands and then re-crossed them, an oddly human-like gesture of discomfort. "Should such an essence ever confront the fires of Hell, it would instantly be overcome and twisted into sin."_

"_But not here on earth." It was a statement, not an inquiry because Dean already knew that. He'd seen Anna's grace when she took it back, but the very thought of the girl he thought he once could have loved made him want to slam his fist into the wall, so he kept his train of thought on the issue at hand. "Why?"_

"_Think of earth as a no man's land, where warriors sanctioned by the Lord and those from down below have an equal battlefield, with neither side having any advantage over the other. In the same way, humans are used as vessels because they are the in between, they are the middleman." The angel re-crossed his hands again. Right thumb over left. Separate. Left thumb over right._

_Dean shook his head in frustration, wishing that he had some sort of translator that could decipher the angel's cryptic language. "Come again?" _

"_This realm of being is the only location where an angel's grace could be ripped from his soul and fed to Lucifer's vessel before the essence dissipated," Gabriel snapped harshly, impatient at the mortal's limited capacity of understanding. "They brought my brother down into the Pit and dragged him back up through the numberless levels of the abyss for the sole purpose of weakening his will through torture. Getting dragged down into Hell isn't nearly as painful as the journey back up." _

_His throat was dry and Dean swallowed hard, dumbstruck. "What?" It still came out as a whisper. "But I don't- I can't remember…" _

_Gabriel turned his head then and the sidelong stare was uncomfortable and probing. "Castiel took it upon himself to strike it from your memory." The hunter's only response was silence and the angel fixed his disconcerting gaze all the more intensely on Dean's face. "I heard what Uriel said to you, Dean Winchester. But he is wrong for all too often, we soldiers forget the teachings of the Father. Compassion and mercy for the Lord's creations is not weakness; rather, those are the qualities that make my brother strong." _

His fingers slid over the smooth glass beads, not knowing which sections of the rosary were supposed to be divided up into Hail Marys or the different Mystery chants but not caring either. Dean closed his fingers into a fist, letting the silver crucifix warm in his hand as his breath billowed out before him like great clouds of grey smoke.

Bobby was worried. The younger hunter had that look in his eye, and boy did Robert Steven Singer recognize that _look_. He'd seen it too many times in John's eye before to _not_ realize it, and while he never would have admitted it out loud (or perhaps even to himself), it frightened him. "Do you even know _where_ you're going? Where exactly is the set location for the sacrifice where 'life and death coincide'? And how are you going to save two people at the same time?"

"Where Cas is, that's where Sam will be," Dean answered curtly and straightened from where he had been leaning against the Impala's trunk and went around the car to the driver's side. "And as for where I'm going, I know where to start. Where else is there a portal to and from Hell?"

"You mean the Devil's Gate."

"That's exactly where I mean."

"Wyoming, that's at _least_ a five hour drive!"

"Not the way I drive." Dean stuck the key in the ignition and was about to start the car and Bobby stuck his hand inside the open window, grabbing his arm.

"You're not gonna win this fight, boy. Not with shotguns, holy water or even that special demon knife of yours. Not alone."

"Don't worry, Bobby. I've got angels perched on my shoulder." With that and a roar of the engine, Dean pushed the pedal to the metal and peeled out into the night.

* * *

He didn't know how long it'd been before the moving truck rumbled to a halt and the driver killed the engine. Sam tensed upon hearing the driver and passenger doors opening and shutting and the sounds of footsteps moving toward where he still sat in the darkness, unable to do so much as scoot away from the trunk as it was unlocked from the outside and hauled upwards, letting in the cool night air.

"Up on yer feet. And no funny business, wise guy."

He briefly considered struggling but that notion was quickly quelled when he turned his head and found himself staring straight down the barrel of a gun. Sam rose slowly, head still throbbing. Even though his legs hadn't been restrained, if he tried to run right now, he wouldn't have gotten very far with a 9 mm Glock 17 stuck in the small of his back. A brief chill stole over him as the muzzle pressed against the wound that had long ago scarred over but whose far-stretching effects were still being felt. _If I had never been born…if none of this had ever happened… what if…?_

The two demons prodded him across the blacktop and toward the large building that loomed over the parking lot and stood against the backdrop of the midnight sky like a monster made of brick and mortar. Sam sneaked a glance at the sign that stood on the edge of the overgrown and weed-infested lawn that showed signs of abandonment.

Our Lady of Mercy Hospital. Huh. What irony.

The interior of the hospital was even worse than the lawn, with the paint chipping off the walls with rats skittering along the dusty corridors completing the picture of wretched desolation but Sam could still sense the ammonia and bleach that were once used to scrub the walls and floors sparkling clean to mask the ugly processes of trying to sew people back together to prevent life from leaking away. Death itself lingered on the air, along with the stench of sulfur that exuded from the dozens of demon possessed that lined the halls, black eyes fixed upon Lucifer's intended vessel.

"You better leave off on messin' 'im up too bad. Bossman wants this one all to 'imself."

"Greedy bastard. This one looks like he'd be a lot of fun, too."

Voices floated out of a surprisingly well-lit room that Sam, from the very few times that he'd actually been in a hospital, recognized as the operating room. For some reason, his heels wanted to take root into the floor where he stood because he could tell that whatever lay beyond those swinging doors was something he didn't want to be a part of. The gun jammed into his back yet again, forcing him in and what he saw made his stomach turn three rebellious somersaults.

Now he knew why Pamela reacted the way she did after witnessing this spectacle in Hell. Beautiful, fierce Pamela who had clung to his arm for half an hour, sobbing and unable to speak except to gasp out one name over and over, throat choked with tears and helplessness. It was the same name that slipped from his mouth now, colored with disbelief and horror.

"_Castiel!"_

The gaggle of demons turned away from the operating table they surrounded in the middle of the room, turning to face the newcomers with expressions of displeasure at having been interrupted. The form strapped down upon the table, illuminated by the garishly bright overhead lights did not move; Castiel did not respond and fear gripped Sam's entire being, clenching its fingers tight.

* * *

Dean replaced the gas nozzle, slamming the lid of the fuel tank shut and looked up at the sky for a brief moment, taking a deep breath. He'd been going about eighty, ninety miles per hour since he left Bobby's house and his mind was whirling in every which direction at about five times that speed.

_Do I really know where I'm going? Sure, somewhere in Wyoming. Do I know what to do when I get there? What if everything goes to Hell and the plan doesn't work; what am I supposed to do when the shit hits the fan? How many of these sons of bitches am I going to have to take down? How many of them _can_ I take down? _

There was one question that probed at the corners of his mind, one that was too painful to think about so he pushed it into a corner and had hoped that it would stay there, safely stowed away from the forefront of his consciousness but he kept returning to it, like a magnet drawn invariably to its core.

_If it comes down to the wire, and you can only save one of them… which one will it be? Your brother, or the angel?_

Dean scrubbed at his face wearily. It shouldn't have been that hard of a question to answer, but his gut instinct to answer with Sam's name reinvigorated the dark feeling of guilt that had been gnawing away at his conscience ever since his first nightmare. With a low growl of frustration, the hunter rounded the car and slipped into the driver's seat, slamming the door hard-

-and, turning swiftly, dumped an entire bottleful of holy water onto the person in the passenger's seat with a swift flick of his wrist, eliciting a shriek of pain.

"Son of a-!"

"You talk about my mother that way and I'll give you another," Dean warned, reaching into his for another bottle even as his spoke. "What, you didn't think I could smell rotten eggs filling up my car? You're cleaning out that stink, by the way."

Ruby put up her hands in defense, glaring from behind her soaked locks of hair that hung in her face. "Take it easy, Dean."

"Sure. Get out of my car, stay away from my brother and while you're at it, take a nice one-way vacation back to Hell and we'll call it even."

"I'm not here to fight," she said, eying him warily. "I just want to help you find Sam."

"I don't need a demon telling me how to look after _my_ brother."

"I know where it's all going down," Ruby quickly interjected.

"Old news. It's in Wyoming, in a hospital. Get out."

"Oh, so you know where Our Lady of Mercy Hospital is?"

Dean faltered for a minute and opened his mouth before shutting it with a click. He glared. "No."

"I can take you there."

His foot stomped the accelerator to the floor.

_A/N: Whew. Wow. Okay. I'm not sure when I'll have the time to crank out the next chapter, cause my schedule is packed right now but I hope I'm not leaving you guys off on too painful of a cliffhanger. Thanks for reading and please review!_


	8. Hour Two

_Disclaimer: Supernatural and all its affiliates belong to Eric Kripke. _

They say that only when confronted with the icy grip of death do men reveal their true natures. No matter how egotistical or confident a man seemed to be, no matter how much machismo he harbored or whatever guise he put on for appearance's sake- all one had to do to see what a man was made of was observe how he reacted when staring the gruesome and the unthinkable straight in the eye. Some broke down and cried like children, others ran like cowards and some offered up anything and everything for bargaining, caught up in the throes of stark desperation.

Sam Winchester had seen his fair share of strange and idiotic, he'd tasted the horrific and could handle what would have terrified most, and had what he'd like to think of as a pretty strong will. After all, how many led a life as a shotgun-toting, holy water wielding hunter who traveled all over the country, hunting down that which the majority of the population thought only appeared in folklore and legend?

The first time he fired a gun, he had been seven years old. He spent his entire childhood melting silver down into bullets for his father and living in shitty motel rooms. He'd witnessed his own mother's murder in the cradle. He had died once and been brought back, he'd exorcized evil spirits through an unnatural ability granted to him by a demon; he'd seen his brother get dragged down to Hell and pulled back out.

He'd shaken the hand of an angel.

But now as he stood there in the brash spotlights of the operating room, he felt his stomach bottom out as he stared in horror at the angel's barely recognizable tortured form. But he couldn't bring himself to feel repulsion. This wasn't some enemy or a stranger who was strapped down on the table, lying there all but broken, surrounded by sneering demons and the red of his own blood; it was Castiel, the strong, steadfast angel of the Lord who was supposed to be more powerful than the scum that danced around his limp frame, the angel who had gone through Hell (literally) for the soul of a man that wasn't nearly devout or pious enough to have caught the attention of God.

The crisscross mass of lacerations, abrasions and burns deliberately inflicted by the brutal hands of evil were sickening to even glance at but Sam could do nothing but gape and involuntarily, he felt his feet moving, legs carrying him in long, furious strides toward the helpless victim, trying to suck in all the air his lungs refused to accept in that one frozen instant of shock. _You worthless scum of the earth, get the hell away from him!_

"Castiel!"

Unsurprisingly, multiple hands grabbed for him and he was shoved away by an invisible hand, back hitting the drywall with such tremendous force that it felt like someone had just dropped a car on top of his chest. Grunting with effort, he tired to pull away from the all too familiar feel of iron bands wrapping around his torso and attempting to wrench his entire body through the plaster he was pressed up against. A trickle of sweat slid down his temple.

"You know this priggish ass?" One of the demons drawled out, quirking an eyebrow upward in surprise and amusement. The response garnered was a low growl as Sam fought with all his might to get to the angel, wanting nothing more than to mop up all the blood and pretend that he'd never seen the warrior of the Lord in his most vulnerable state, trapped inside a human vessel and reduced to a punching bag for the twisted pleasures of the savages from down below.

"I'm inclined to think he has a fancy for our angel," A proper-looking young man dressed to the nines in a dapper suit observed, pompous accent made all the more ridiculous by the bestial curl of his lip. Sam literally bared his teeth. Their angel? They had no right to lay claim to Castiel. He was an _angel_, goddamn it! No one was supposed to have the upper hand on angels except for God Himself.

The young man's pupils expanded and the whites of his eyes turned black as he held Sam's incensed glare. "You're just in time then, old sport," he said pleasantly, beckoning to someone in the corner of the room. "We're all having a jolly time, and you came in at just the best part."

Castiel, for all intents and purposes, looked dead and Sam grew cold at the thought. Urgently, he scrutinized the angel's torso, trying to see whether or not the mangled chest was moving while attempting to not look at the mutilated flesh. Someone passed in front of his line of vision and he blinked in confusion before demons that had suddenly congregated in a tight ring around the table drew back, eager to turn up the heat now that they had an audience.

_Shit. No! _Sam couldn't bring himself to steadfastly fix his eyes straight ahead; he had to look away and though he couldn't move, he cringed as the crackle of electricity filed the room, as thousands of volts of charged particles surged into the angel's limp body that seized in a convulsion up off the table before falling lifelessly back down.

* * *

The 1967 Chevy Impala streaked through the still night, a blur of midnight against the greater blackness that was the darkness. Its driver had not removed his foot from where it was pressing the accelerator to the floor of the car since he turned the key in the ignition some hundreds of miles ago after leaving a gas station and it was a wonder that the old car was managing to hold out.

Dean was gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles were turning white and his back was ramrod straight, shoulders tense. His cheek was set tightly, squaring his jaw even more and his mouth was set in a thin, hard line. Silence filled the car when given another time and another place, the radio would have been blasting AC/DC and it would've been Sam sitting in the seat next to him, complaining about the music or perhaps sleeping as they drove on toward their next job, looking for a cheap motel where they could unpack and set up camp.

Instead here he was stuck with a demon and goddamn it, he was going to make her scrub the stench of rotten eggs out of his car with a toothbrush. He flicked a glance at her, sharp as a knife and noticed with a slight feeling of satisfaction that there was fear etched firmly onto her face and her hands were taut, bracing herself the dashboard as she hung on for dear life.

Ruby caught his brief look and she glared. "You drive any faster and this bucket of bolts is going to fall apart."

_Bucket of bolts?_ Dean glowered and spitefully pumped the accelerator several times, inducing several unsavory words from the demon. "What, you expect me to start slowing down 'cause you say so? Nice try. You don't like how I drive, then get out."

She seemed to take the threat to heart and it was good that she did so because he was serious. She sat back, exhaled slowly and resorted to gripping the door handle with both hands instead. "Dean, look. They probably haven't even started the ritual yet-"

"Don't think you're gonna get off on bullshittin' me 'cause I'll slap that smartass right outta your mouth and dump you on the side of the road."

"The ritual started at three o'clock, as a mockery to the time when the Son took his last breath and gave up his spirit," Ruby said slowly and nodded at the digital numerals glowing bright red. "It's barely four-thirty now; it's only the second hour. So you can stop driving like a maniac; you've been on the road since one this morning and we're already into Wyoming."

The glower Dean sent in her direction was so cold that it burned with the heat of a thousand promises of death and was enough to make Ruby shrink back against the passenger side door in fear. "What're you saying?" he ground out slowly, voice low and hostile. " 'It's only the second hour'," he mimicked, taking one hand off the wheel to wave it around in a girlish manner before scoffing bitterly. "Bitch," the hunter hissed venomously. "I've _memorized_ every single part of the freakin' ritual. I know what happens during the second and third hour. Do you?" was the hurled accusation.

Ruby winced at his tone, she _winced_. Quickly, she turned her face away and stared out the window, hands twisting nervously in her lap. "Yes."

"So what happens then?" Dean goaded. "Since you seem to have all the information and are always so sure of yourself, enlighten me on why I shouldn't want to get there as soon as possible. Why don't you tell me what happens during the second and third hour?" When only silence met the provocation, he slammed his fist against the steering wheel, making the demon jump at the abruptness of his movements. "_Say it!_"

"No," came the barely audible whisper and the hunter breathed deeply, letting his rage simmer and slowly settle. His molars ground together, a terrible habit he'd picked up from his father and slowly, Dean forced his jaw to relax lest his face somehow got stuck in its current contorted, pained expression.

_Inhale, count one-two-three. Exhale, one-two-three. Inhale, exhale. Breathe. And repeat._

An ex-girlfriend who was a yoga instructor had once told him that he needed anger management classes but since he barely had time to take her out to the movies without getting called out on some random job that took him halfway across the country, she had to settle with teaching him respiration patterns to release the pent up energy in his chakra or whatever. He never did tell her the truth about what he'd dubbed "business trips" but for his credit, she never really pressed the matter. Even though he'd never admit it for he felt like an idiot for having to be taught something as mundane as breathing, the exercises worked.

His thoughts inevitably grew grim and his expression soured again as his eyes flickered uneasily toward the car's clock. 4:21 AM. Four minutes and thirteen seconds since he last checked. Four mintues and thirteen minutes until Castiel's situation became hopeless. Four minutes and thirteen seconds closer to the fulfillment of the horrific happenings of the third hour, in which the angel's grace would be ripped from his being and his soul would be banished to the depths of Hell forever.

"_Can I tell you something if you promise not to tell another soul?"_

If he had been taken aback by Castiel's words indicating that he actually gave a damn about innocent human beings (or the Father's creations, as he called them), Dean had been nearly floored by the simple sentence that had come out of the angel's mouth afterwards. It was more than a question; it was a tentative extension of an open hand, the first initiative toward more than curt orders from Heaven and the ever-looming threat of the breaking of the sixty-six seals: it was an offering of confidentiality. Of trust.

After having the image of cherubic, winged beings sitting atop fluffy clouds and strumming harps banished abruptly from his mind by the appearance of this somber-looking holy tax accountant, he hadn't thought that angels were capable of anything beyond acting as a couple of hammers. The compassion, infinite wisdom and kindness evident in Castiel's voice as he spoke to Sam, as he tried to reason with Anna and as the angel confided in Dean about his doubts made him seem more than the initial appearances resonated. Those qualities measured against Uriel's battle-hardened, arrogant persona and Gabriel's cool, frosty indifference and blank features made Castiel seem all the more approachable and more… _real? More human?_ The descriptors still didn't quite match but Dean didn't really care.

Castiel had once demanded respect from him in the aftermath of the raising of the witnesses and what must have been a difficult battle for Heaven's forces as well. Now though, Dean Winchester realized that he didn't have to be threatened with the possibility of being thrown back into Hell for him to regard the angel as worthy of his admiration and deference. This rescue mission was as much for him as it was for Sam, and it wasn't being carried out begrudgingly in the least.

He wasn't driving ninety along the interstate, heading toward what would probably prove to be one of the hardest battles of his life out of duty. It wasn't guilt either, though the dark feeling was still gnawing at the edges of his conscience. In all honesty, Dean couldn't really put a name to the reason why he was so adamant on saving the angel, but he'd never really been that great of an orator anyway.

_Hang in there, Cas. Stay strong, Sammy. I'm coming._

4:27 AM.

* * *

He was hanging suspended in a sea of darkness, limbs outstretched and fettered with unbreakable restraints. Or perhaps it was simply because he felt so weak that he was unable to break the bonds, too weak to even lift his head. An icy chill rippled through his frame and he shivered. The cold was spreading slowly across his chest to the rest of his body when suddenly, the frost turned to fire and pain blazed across his consciousness. Time slipped and rational existence disintegrated into nothingness.

His mind whirled and his trembling lips tried to form words but no sound would come from his parched throat. The environment surrounding him was clouded and hazy at best and he couldn't recall much that had transpired during the last couple of hours, days, weeks, even. However, there were some things that he recalled with vivid clarity.

_Twin flames shot through his back and Castiel's already erratic breathing hitched in his chest_. _His eyes shut firmly and he tried to dissociate a part of his consciousness from the pain, trying to ignore the stabbing as the hellfire-forged metal gouged into his flesh, twisting deep. _

_The demon crouched behind him chuckled nastily, pulling the spokes out with a sickening squelching sound and circled around to face his victim. "Oh, pardon me. Was that so terrible? I was just looking for the wings. I lost mine a while back you know, when Daddy dearest tossed me out and I was wondering if you would happen to have the graciousness to let me borrow yours." _

_Castiel lifted his eyes, dulled by exhaustion and the torment inflicted upon him but gazed steadily nonetheless at this Duke of Hell who wielded power over forty infernal legions in the Pit, this beast with the body of a wolf and a serpent's tail, the head of a raven and teeth of a canine. From his mouth the demon vomited flames of fire and the angel of the Lord drew in his strength, staring into the black soul of his foe and not flinching. _

"_Vade draco, hostis humanae salutis… humiliare sub potenti manu Christo-"_

_With an enraged shriek at the mentioning of the Son of God, the demon brought his hand back and whipped it forward, slashing the angel deeply across every inch of vulnerable flesh, frothing at the mouth in anger at Castiel's lack of an outward reaction. Grabbing the angel's throat in one hand, claws clenched inwards until they were in danger of crushing the trachea and vertebrae altogether. _

"_Mindless fool," Amon hissed. "Who do you hold out for? What's the purpose of this façade of bravado? You're all alone now, why don't you lift up your voice along with the choir of the damned here? No one cares if you scream. In fact, I'd like it very much. Oblige me, angel."_

"_I… I am not alone," Castiel wheezed out against the grip around his throat. "My Father is always with me. And you, fallen one… you have no power over the Lord."_

_The demon sneered. "You're even blinder than I thought. Look around you!" He roared in laughter. "You'll never be welcomed back into God's graces, not after you've been here." Amon seized his victim's jaw, bringing his face an inch away from Castiel's and blew sulfurous breath into the angel's features. "You're dirty now, angel. You've been touched and contaminated by the fires of Hell. Why else do you think your caring, loving Daddy hasn't sent any of your block-headed brethren after you? He doesn't want you back."_

_Castiel jerked his jaw forcefully out of the demon's grip. "You lie, Amon," he rasped out with effort toward the demon that he himself had defeated in the battle against Lucifer and his fallen angels before the earth was created. "You and your kind always lie."_

_The demon laughed maliciously and uproariously. "Then why is there doubt and fear in your eyes?" Castiel struggled, turning his face away as Amon leaned in close. "Get comfortable here," he hissed. "Soon, you're going to be just like all the rest of us wallowing down here in the Pit."_

He could feel himself rising, slowly but he knew not by what means for his mind was distant from his vessel; separated, weightless, and for the moment, free from all sensation. Castiel hung limply against his restraints, no longer bearing the strength to continue fighting. _This is God's will_, his own words resounded heavily in his mind. _It is just._

_

* * *

_

Sam pulled at his invisible restraints with all his might, shouts muffled by the gag that had been carelessly shoved in his mouth after he had started shouting all the excerpts from exorcisms he could remember, botching quite a few of the Latin words but hoping to buy some time before the demons really went overboard in their sick, twisted game of seeing which one of them could make the angel bleed more.

Castiel had been moved from the operating table to a gurney, strapped down and now the stretcher was lying vertically against the wall to allow more demons access to the body at the same time. The young demon-possessed Brit picked up a scalpel, flipping the sharp medical instrument over and over his fingers, from knuckle to knuckle. "Let's see those pretty blue eyes now, shall we?" He lowered the blade to Castiel's closed eyelids, pressing down ever so slightly…

"Hands off of the angel." The command was hissed in the voice of a snake and all heads turned toward the door, where a _very_ familiar individual stood, cool and collected as he surveyed the scene before him with pupil-less, colorless iris.

"Alastair, you old sod." The scalpel was immediately tucked away and out of sight with a little slight of hand. "Come around for a visit?"

"Step away if you know what's good for you, Belial. This one is _mine._" The white-eyed demon approached the standing gurney, casting an interested by somewhat distracted glance at Sam on his way over. Alastair crooked a finger under the angel's chin and lifted Castiel's head, placing one finger against the branded symbol while muttering under his breath.

"_Postestas Inferna…"_

Castiel's eyes flew open and the angel jerked his head back and as far away as possible from the demon's touch, suddenly in full consciousness and experiencing the pain that came along with it. He knew Alastair's darkness and knew it was Hell's Chief torturer with just one touch, in the way the demon had started to call upon the powers of the abyss. Panic lay within the depths of his weary gaze and blood welled from the cut along his eyelid, dripping crimson into his vision but when the angel saw Sam pinned against the wall, he sagged limply against the straps, head hung low in helplessness.

"Evening, kiddo." Oil and honey was all that was mixed into the demon's voice, but beneath it lay the fires of Hell and the screams of the thousands upon thousands of souls he'd tortured since death became known. Castiel knew. He _knew_.

_Father, forgive me. I have failed you._

There were no bells tolling in the distance this time. It was a distinct change in the atmosphere, in the feel of the night air and it took form in the glee that lit up the demon's faces and the sinking feeling in Sam's chest.

5:00 AM. The third hour had struck.

_A/N: Thanks for hanging in there with me, guys. Your reviews mean a lot. March has been terrible so far and I've got so much to do… but I've got two or three more chapters, so bear with me a little longer! _


	9. Daybreak

_Disclaimer: Supernatural and all its affiliates belong to Eric Kripke. _

Doubt. It was a feeling of uncertainty or a lack of conviction. It was a concept laced with hesitation, with suspicion and ambivalence. In other words, it was a lack of total trust and absolute faith. Humans were allowed to feel doubtful for though they were indeed made in the image of God, they were creations that were flawed due to sin. Angels, however, were different. The warriors of Heaven were to carry out commands from the throne of the Most High without question. They did not doubt the Lord.

But what if they did?

Somehow despite everything else cluttering his mind and fogging up his awareness- not only the ragged edges of nerves giving voice to the sensory overload but also the overwhelming despair that made his heart sink once he saw Sam Winchester pinned against the wall- Castiel wondered if all this was chastisement for the questions that lurked in the back of his mind concerning the orders he'd been receiving from above, if God was punishing him for nearly being tempted into disobedience.

He hadn't fallen like Anna had, but as he hung there, weak and defenseless, watching Alastair power up the reciprocating saw that had been brought along by the demons for the sole purpose of cutting through his sternum, he wished for swift judgment and penalty from Heaven (as Anna would soon receive) instead of such prolonged torment that would never end.

Was doubt a transgression so terrible that the fitting punishment was an eternity of torture and separation from the Father as a lost, wretched soul in the depths of the Pit?

_Yet give attention to your servant's prayer and his plea for mercy, O Lord my God. Hear the cry and the prayer that your servant is praying in your presence this day._ The angel's soul cried out for assistance and forgiveness, but it was impossible for the holiness and purity of the Father to be here among such depravity and in the presence of evil.

Was it true, the unclean words the fallen ones had been whispering into his ears the entire time they had been ripping his vessel apart in the abyss? Was it true that he was now so filthy, so soiled and filled with shameful impurity that he was no longer welcomed into the hallowed halls of Heaven? What if the Father really wanted nothing more to do with him?

Demons lied though; they always lied and sometimes even believed their own falsehoods to be truth. But Castiel didn't know the difference between fact and mere fabrications of his own stressed mind anymore, goaded on by external forces that he had no control over. All he knew of at this moment was that another seal was about to be broken, Lucifer was about to be granted a vessel, and the thought even more painful than being flayed to the bone or an eternity upon the rack-

His Father no longer cared as to what happened to him.

And that knowledge, above all else, was enough to make Castiel lose hope.

* * *

"They're not going to leave even a piece of him for us?"

"Nah. Selfish bastards, always having all the fun themselves and leaving us nothing but scraps."

Several demons leaned casually against the side of the rundown building bumming smokes off of each other while others lounged lazily around, waiting for the sign, any sign of the ritual's completion. None of them noticed a slim figure scaling the edge of the building and carrying a strange-looking device, dark hair snapping like a banner in wind.

Ruby cursed all hunters under her breath as she sought for another crevice to put her foot in the wall of the decrepit building, trying to juggle the blowtorch and her own form without dropping one or the other. _Damn you Dean Winchester,_ she thought viciously as she reached the script that seemed to be glowing white on the red brick surface, an elaborate symbol only eyes like hers could see and from where she hung, she could see quite a few of them. She heaved a groan of exasperation. _Damn it, Sam. The only reason I'm here is to save your ass. Again._

A redheaded girl tossed her head and shrugged her shoulders at her companion's dejected statement, crossing her arms across her chest. "Hell, I'd like to get the scraps of that meat puppet, not to mention the angel that's bound inside."

"Get in line," was the response and she stubbed out the butt of her cigarette on her vessel's tongue and lifted her eyebrows at the dare.

"What, you wanna have a go, you spineless dick?"

"Bring it on, _bitch_." Too late did the demon realize that the growl had not come from the other demons who were rapidly backing away from something behind her, faces stretching in fear and she turned, long nails ready to do damage when a blast of rock salt erupted in her face. She fell back, screeching and cursing the emerald-eyed hunter holding the shotgun with murder written in his intense gaze and hard features that held tales of sleepless nights and something even darker spurred on by an unnamable emotion akin to hateful desperation.

Ruby watched as Dean's presence instigated a brawl that shattered the quiet darkness and as the other demons reacted to the hunter's presence. Taking a deep breath, she ignited the blowtorch and slowly began to sear through the symbols on the wall.

* * *

The saw's whirring blade stopped an inch away from Castiel's chest and a pleased smirk crept onto Alastair's face. "Oh, we have an audience," he purred, turning his head toward the swinging doors, outside of which screams and sounds of melee were flooding the hallways and crashing against the walls of the empty building to echo back their ghostly refrains. The demon inhaled deeply. No, there was no mistaking the redolence of that soul and he flashed Sam a grin that made the hunter involuntarily shudder. "Guess he couldn't bear to miss the show, eh?"

Sam's eyes widened and darted toward the door, the demons occupying the room did the same and all was silent save for the sound of Castiel's wheezing breaths and the sound of the commotion nearing closer and closer to the door-

"-send all of your sorry asses back to Hell!"

BANG. _CRASH_.

A body was driven backwards in through the swinging doors, momentum bringing the man flat on his back but he continued to fire off rounds of rock salt from the shotgun he held against his chest even as the horde of demons within the operating room swarmed him, grabbing the barrel and other miscellaneous weapons on the hunter's person. Presently though, Dean was hauled up onto his feet, defenseless and with his arms twisted behind his back and with blood running down his chin from a split lip.

_Dean!_ Sam tried to yell out his brother's name but it came out as a muffled "_mmmph_!!" and he struggled against Belial's telekinetic power hold over him; the possessed Brit cast him an amused glance at his efforts before an unctuous voice filled the room, commanding everyone's attention.

"Dean, Dean, Dean. We just keep running into each other, don't we?" Alastair lifted his chin, looking down in what seemed to be a curious manner, when in reality there was nothing but ridicule in the gesture. "Here on a little rescue mission?"

The hunter didn't answer. His gaze had traveled over to his brother and after a brief once-over that concluded Sam was free of any immediate life-threatening injuries (the only thing that would be bothering him was that rather nasty-looking bump on his head), Dean's attention fixed upon center stage and something dark and foreboding boiled over.

Alastair smiled smugly; he knew the reason for the dawning outrage on Dean's face and it was actually quite entertaining to see the boy's features transform from pure shock to determined hate. "You like my work? I'll admit that he wasn't as compliant of a canvas as you were Dean, but you know what they say: art is art," the demon sighed and carelessly flicked a finger against the brand on Castiel's forehead before drawing back his fist and slamming it against the angel's exposed and already abused abdomen. Fresh blood wet his knuckles. "What do you think, Belial?"

The well-dressed demon hissed in admiration, lasciviously licking his lips. "Delicious."

Castiel was instinctively trying to curl in on himself to absorb the damage, doubling over as far as the restraining straps would allow and the eyelids that had fluttered shut slammed open, irises growing glossy with moisture at the unexpected blow and his mouth opened, hollow like a cavern, gasping for breath. His reaction garnered loud and brute laughter from all the demons in the room and from his position flat against the wall Sam flinched and looked away; Alastair was drawing his fist back for another blow-

The thinning string of self-control that dangled taunting in Dean's mind suddenly drew taut. Belial's reply sliced through his consciousness, quite neatly and efficiently clipping the strand in half. He located the feeling swelling up within his chest and scrutinized it, measured it and let it sift through his mental fingers because it was as tangible as the smirking face in front of him, as real as Castiel's broken frame on display for all to see, as breakable as every bone in Alastair's body (or at least his vessel's anyway) and he surged against the hands holding him back, rage so deeply etched into his face that one could have carved it with a knife. _"SON OF A BITCH!!"_

Alastair dropped his clenched hand; he'd gotten a reaction. Slowly, he approached the hunter who this time had been forced onto his knees, the sheer press of bodies keeping him from rising but all the same, he glared hatefully up at the creature standing above him. "So much for your noble act of self-sacrifice," the white-eyed demon sneered. "We've angel-proofed this building all around, or did you somehow figure that you could take down this seal on your own? Hmm? Come, come- don't be shy. I'd like you know how you think you could've managed to get the upper hand here."

"Yeah, well _I'd_ like all of you evil sons of bitches to go back to the craphole you crawled out of," Dean spat in response and earned a bloody nose for his answer. Alastair sauntered back toward the angel and fisted his fingers in the blood-crusted dark brown hair, jerking up the angel's head and revving up the sternum cutter, placing it dangerously close to Castiel's face.

"Just answer the question boy, and I'll keep the angel's face pretty just for you," the demon snarked. "How about it?"

A vein Dean's temple pulsed but he forced himself to remain calm and bit out a reply highlighted by a sardonic smirk. "How 'bout a shower?"

Certain logistics behind the abandonment and subsequent degradation of Our Lady of Mercy Hospital were murky and unclear at best, but they sure had a damn good emergency response system that still worked, for right then as if on the hunter's unspoken command, a siren wailed and sprinklers embedded in the ceiling began releasing a rain of water sanctified by the crucifix Dean had dropped into the reserve tanks out back before entering the building.

"_Shit!_"

The instant moisture made contact with the possessed occupying the room, there arose such a shrieking that would have immediately rendered a sensitive ear deaf as the demons howled aloud, trying in vain to shield themselves as the heated mist arose from their vessels' bodies and curled up into the air like ribbons of grey smoke. Dean's arms were released and he rolled out of the way and into the room's far corner, getting to one knee and discreetly pulling Ruby's knife out of his right boot.

"_Goddamn_ you wretched whoreson-"

The demons dashed blindly for the exits, some frothing at the mouth, running into walls and even trampling over each other in their frenzied efforts to escape the stinging needles of the purified spray and hurling insults right and left all the way. One of them crashed headlong into Belial, breaking the elder demon's focus on keeping Lucifer's vessel pressed against the wall like a trapped rat and Sam fell heavily to the floor.

_That's it you bastards, run, _Dean thought, eyes fixed on Alastair through the crowd. The demon's face was a mix of disbelief as if he couldn't fathom the idiocy and weakness of those below him and annoyance at having his fun disturbed. _I know holy water doesn't affect pricks high up in the hierarchy of Hell, but until I know of a way to send Alastair's ugly black soul back to the Pit, a distraction to lure his attention away is the best I can offer, Cas._ Gathering himself, he took a deep breath and recklessly launched himself at the Chief Torturer of Hell and his current victim, brandishing the demonic blade as if it was his last defense.

Belial threw the fool who had the nerve to bowl him over out the swinging doors, across the width of the hallway and through the open window, scowling and adjusting his green and white paisley necktie. "You sorry little shit," he said, voice dangerously soft and directed at a specific hunter's retreating back. The demon was one who kept up with his appearance and appreciated the finer qualities of life. Given the fact that silk didn't come cheap these days and leather shrunk, having to stand in an inch of holy water while wearing Italian loafers and such a fine suit did more than piss him off. After all, he wasn't heralded as the lord of lust and arrogance for nothing and he raised one finely manicured hand, intending to crush the life out of Dean Winchester. It would have been more than easy, like squashing a bug-

Sam's jaw tightened at what he saw and his teeth clenched, hands opening and closing into fists. His nostrils flared as he breathed hard, getting to his feet as the holy water pounded his frame and he glared hard through the liquid curtain coming from above at the demon that was intending on finishing off his brother. "Your fight is over here so turn around and face me, you conceited ass!"

"Why hello Sam," Belial smiled congenially, turning and obliging to the other's request. He and the hunter matched each other step for step, eyeing each other warily- a demon of old that radiated evil even through the neat, combed back blonde hair (now dampened by the holy water that did not affect the creature from Hell) enhanced by pretty boy features that screamed _British exchange student_ versus the infamous boy with the demon blood, known by demons and angels alike. It was by no means a fair match, but no one could've been able to point to a clear victor. "I don't believe we've had the pleasure of being introduced before now." He cracked his knuckles. "Let's play, shall we?"

Dean's feet pounded the floor, splashing water everywhere and he was almost there, so _close_- and then came the awfully familiar feeling of weightlessness as his body went airborne with a mere wave of Alastair's hand. The demon hadn't even turned to look at him as Dean was flung across the room like a fly bouncing off the screen door, head striking hard against a sharp edge and he fell haphazardly to the floor, dazed. His vision went blurry and stars exploded across his world as he tried to prop himself up, palm slipping against the sanctified water-slick floor. Something warm and sticky was trailing down the back of his head, dripping down his neck to stain his collar and it didn't take a genius to know what it was. _Great… just when I can't afford to have a lack of motor coordination or double vision. What shit luck…_

"Dean!" Sam called out to his brother, alarmed, as he watched the other crash against the operating table that had streams of watered down crimson waterfalls running off the tabletop. Taking advantage of the distraction, Belial lunged like a predator pouncing upon its prey, growling like an animal with bared teeth. Bloodlust and a thirst for destruction shone clearly in his white, pupil-less eyes.

_Damn!_ Sam turned and caught the momentum full on, falling like an aged oak tree with the demon on top. Straining heavily, the hunter just barely managed to pull his knees into his chest and send his feet into his opponent's chest, kicking Belial over his head. The demon collided solidly with the wall and there was a terrible crack as his skull took the brunt of the impact, but he was on his feet in a flash. This time though, Sam was ready. "Come and get me," he challenged beckoning the demon forth.

Alastair's features were twisted in a vicious snarl, dual anger and malicious mirth carved into the lines of his face, even more deeply etched than the fingers clenched around Castiel's throat. He could feel the weak and thready pulse underneath his fingers and it gave him a rush, to feel the once-formidable angel's life in the palm of his hand, in his unrelenting grip…

"You think they've come to save you," the demon sneered into the faded blue gaze that once held so much power and authority, now all of which had been driven out by sheer torture. Castiel, having been shaken to wakefulness by the meek relief the water blessed in the Father's name provided tried in vain to turn his face away, unable to do anything else but beseech God above, the plea for salvation falling from trembling lips like gasps of air.

"_Domine… libera tui vernula, audi tui-" _

" 'Save your servant'," Alastair mocked with a smirk filled with scorn. "No one can save you, kiddo. No one _wants_ to save you now…!"

If there was anything true ever said about the mystery that was time, it was that the ever-terrifying, unstoppable hourglass that transcended through the ages and poised as an enemy to all living things was relative. Years passed in what seemed like a blink of an eye and one hour could easily feel like an eternity. Even though life wasn't a movie in which one could hit the pause button or hold the fluidity of existence in his hands, Dean Winchester swore that had he tried hard enough, he could've charged forward through the curtain of holy water falling from the ceiling to stop the hand that swung forward in slow motion, a monster's claw tipped with razor-sharp talons.

"Cas!" he hollered.

Too little, too late.

His surroundings morphed into a fiery landscape and voices were releasing their screams from throats torn asunder by the sadistic practitioners of Hell. Dean knew this scene; he'd seen it many a time before and even this part was the same, the part in which he couldn't do a damn thing but stare in horror as Alastair's hand tore through already shredded skin, muscle and flesh, so forceful that it even splintered bone and sent gouts of blood spurting forth.

"_NO!!"_

Someone was yelling full-throated at the sky, a near-crazed plea filled with disbelief and furious lividity. It took Dean a moment realize that the adamant insistence of the denial of reality that rang out in the form of such a desperate shout was in fact coming from him. _Just like when Sam died…_ Maybe if he bellowed out that one word for long enough, time would reverse itself and all could be made right again, he wouldn't have to go through the process of reliving his nightmare, he wouldn't have to see an angel of the Lord slowly dying before his eyes. Mind as sluggish as his body, Dean willed his limbs into movement and scrambled to his feet, slipping in the inch of bloody water swirling around his ankles as he fought his way out of his frozen state and across the room.

Castiel's back was arched off and away from the stretcher; the angel's face was contorted in agony and indescribable torture. A low groan escaped his throat then, so helpless and heart wrenching to hear that it seemed to emanate from his very soul. _And yea, though I… though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death…_ The hand within his chest twisted and tore through a lung. Castiel's throat filled with blood and his mind went blank for an instant. _Of Death… _He couldn't remember the rest.

His cheek was slammed down against the floor and Sam struggled against the knee pressing into his back and the steely fingers clamped around his wrists that wrenched his arms behind his back, wondering how he'd gotten distracted to the point that he'd allowed Belial to get the drop on him. The cause for him faltering was probably because right when he'd been about to expel the demon from the young man he was possessing, Dean's frantic shout drew his attention to the corner of the room, where the OR's spotlight was illuminating a sight that no surgery the overhead light ever focused upon could've matched.

Alastair clenched a fist, feeling his fingers tearing through tendons and ligaments, absolutely loving how he could make his victim jerk in uncontrollable spasms with just a twitch of his wrist and demon twisted his hand casually around in the thick fluid streaming down his arm like paint, probing hard at the ragged edges of fractured bone just for the hell of it. Just to hear the angel scream- and he _was_ going to make him scream; the demon was going to hear the sweet voice begging for mercy and for death even he if had to reach down his victim's throat and yank it out himself.

Castiel convulsed terribly, his vessel finally unable to take the abuse anymore and his eyes rolled back in his head even as he remembered the last part of the psalm but all he could manage were heaving gasps. _And yea though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, I shall fear no evil._ His head fell against his chest and the angel's light faded along with one last, shaky exhale of a whisper.

"_Pater."_

Dean was within reach; the demonic weapon made the hissing sounds of a snake as droplets of holy water plinked against the metal blade but the handle was warm within his grasp and he reared up, ready to plunge the blade into Alastair's exposed back even though he knew it would have no fatal effect on the powerful demon. He was close enough to hear the air rattling in Castiel's torn lungs, close enough to see the angel's blue eyes rolling skyward beneath fluttering eyelashes, close enough to perceive the angel's groan and it was painful to hear. By God, that inarticulate utterance so filled with agony and despair _killed_ him.

Belial grabbed the back of the human's neck and forced Sam's face into the water, flicking a quick glance over at Alastair's handiwork and growled in carnal pleasure at the macabre view. "Now ain't that a beauty?" he drawled in appreciation, enamored with the blood seeping through innumerable wounds that marred the angel's frame.

* * *

_Alright, almost done… and this is the last time I'm ever scaling a vertical surface this high again…_ Ruby groused mentally and pulled herself up onto the rooftop of the hospital, making her way towards the largest seal right over the room where the angel was supposed to be sacrificed. The surface under her feet trembled as she ignited the blowtorch again and vaguely she wondered if Dean had been too late. The screams erupting from the building mingled along with the hiss of the activated sprinkler system was enough to make anyone wonder exactly what the hell was going on inside.

"I'm sorry, but I can't let you do that."

The demon looked up at the sugary sweet voice full of fake contriteness and an open hand made contact with her cheek with astonishing force, knocking her clear off the rooftop; her hands scrabbled for a firm grip and her fingers barely managed to catch the rooftop's rough edge. The blowtorch lay where it fell from her hand.

"_Bitch_!"

Ruby glared up at the white face framed by dark red locks and small, pink mouth that laughed down at her and the demon spat at the fallen angel's feet.

"Oh, no harsh feelings Ruby," Anna cooed, kneeling down toward the demon. "We're both traitors to our own kind, so you should understand where I'm coming from, hmm?"

Ruby's arms were burning and she grimaced, hanging on for dear life when a shadow fell over Anna's form. The redheaded girl looked up and instantly jumped to her feet, backing away slowly from the young blonde man clothed in a pristine white suit and gold necktie. Ruby stiffened, nearly petrified in terror for even she recognized that presence but the messenger angel Gabriel didn't even cast a glance in the demon's direction as he advanced with silent footsteps resounding with authority and power that was not of this world.

"Gabriel," Anna whispered, half in contempt and half in fear.

The archangel continued to approach stealthily, a menacing light shining in his cool silver-green eyes (or perhaps it was just the light from the stars) and something deadly written in the details of his seemingly expressionless mien. "I am to deliver you to God Almighty for judgment," he said calmly in a ringing voice.

"Are you sure you don't want to save the seal first?"

A muscle in Gabriel's jaw twitched. "You will not lead me astray with your temptations, fallen one."

Anna smirked mischievously. "Alright, then let the demons have their fun with Castiel. I've heard stories of what Belial does to the souls he likes-"

The two angels were moving further away now and Ruby scrambled back up onto the rooftop, straining hard. She would've kissed the solid surface but instead grabbed the fallen blowtorch and burned a blackened trail through the demonic script, freeing the building of its preventive barrier against the warriors from Heaven.

At that moment, a bright light flooded the space and she stumbled backwards, shielding her face from the luminescence and there was a flurry of movement and what sounded like the rush of a thousand feathers passing by so swiftly that dust swirled up off the rooftop. When she could see again, both Anna and the archangel Gabriel had disappeared and Ruby collapsed in relief onto her back, breath coming in hard pants.

_Shit._

_

* * *

_

Sam thrashed wildly against the Belial's hold, nearly throwing his back out in his attempts to free himself and he couldn't hear anything as water filled his ears; he wondered what the hell was going on and how Dean was holding up, if Castiel was still alive and grey spots clouded the edges of his vision as the supply of oxygen within his body dwindled when suddenly, the demon holding him down let out a wild yowl and the weight on his back disappeared.

Dazed, he turned and blinked water out of his eyes to see a blonde man tackling Belial full on with incredible strength, knocking the demon into the far wall with so much force that the plaster cracked like a giant mirror and for a second Sam gaped wordlessly for the man's shadow on the wall revealed large, feathery appendages rising from each shoulder blade.

"_Gabriel,_" Belial hissed, holy water dripping from his vessel's hair and into his face. "Come to see what we've done to your little brother?" A sneer twisted his features as the demon threw the taunt boldly up into the angel's face.

Had the expression of sudden and terrible blankness on Gabriel's face been given a voice, Sam had no doubt that it would have erupted in the form of a roar of outrage as angel and demon lunged for each other's throats-

_Get up, you idiot! _ shouted a voice in the back of Sam's mind and he blinked. _Huh?_

_I said 'get up' and make yourself useful instead of sitting there and watching like some dumb, overgrown, circus ape!_ The voice that sounded suspiciously like Ruby screeched and he was quick to obey, getting to his feet and raising his head just in time to see his brother sinking Ruby's dagger into Alastair's throat.

The demon screamed out in an unintelligible language native to the fiery pits of Hell but it sounded more like a gurgle and reached up, jerking the blade out forcibly and flinging it across the room. He yanked his hand out of Castiel's chest with a sickening sucking sound that would've made even the most experienced surgeon with a stomach of steel nauseated and swung around, blood stained fingers clenching firmly around Dean's neck.

He felt the warmth of Castiel's blood, slippery warmth against his own throat and it made him sick. The cold needles of holy water pricked his skin and Dean choked against the fingers threatening to crush his trachea, pulling uselessly at Alastair's hand. The demon grinned, blood bubbling up in the corners of his mouth and gushing from the gaping wound in his neck but squeezing, squeezing all the tighter; there was something familiar about this scene and it was that annoying déjà vu type thing as Dean found himself standing in a corner watching his own face going blue as Alastair choked the life out of him-

_This is it. Sammy, I'm sorry I still wasn't strong enough this time around. Cas, I guess I'm going to get the last word 'cause I told you so. I told you I wasn't worthy enough to be pulled out of Hell… you shouldn't have gone through the trouble and now all of it's going to be for nothing._

As if in slow motion then Alastair's head seemed to snap to the side, deformed grin fading as the jaw went slack and then black smoke was funneling out of his mouth and Dean was wondering where the fire was if there was that much black smoke and why did it seem to be going out the window now? God, he was so tired, all he wanted to do was close his eyes and go to sleep…

"DEAN!"

_Who's that? Who the hell is yelling like a maniac, can't they just shut up? I swear I'm going to kick that little punk's ass… _Someone was shaking him firmly and he blinked slowly, mind sluggish. A familiar face was about an inch away from his and he frowned, he knew those puppy-like brown eyes. _Sam?_ No, Sammy was dead; his little brother was dead because he'd failed to keep him safe and suddenly he was scared because Hell was a terrible place and no one deserved to go there-

"DEAN, SNAP OUT OF IT!" Sam wanted to whack his brother upside the head but was afraid of causing even more damage but goddamn it, Dean was scaring the hell out of him, the way his brother's green eyes were darting everywhere with panic deep in their depths and not responding. "C'mon!" He snapped his fingers in front of Dean's face and slapped the other's cheek none-too-gently. "Help me get Cas down before-!"

_Cas? Do I know a Cas? Do I know a… Castiel!_ Blurs disappeared and everything in mind fuzzy mind clicked into place. Dean lurched unsteadily to his feet, Sam had a firm grip on his elbow but he was swaying this way and that like a drunken man, staggering toward the angel still bound to the stretcher and then his hands were fumbling clumsily with the restraining straps, half of him wanting to get Castiel down as soon as possible and half of him terrified to even touch the angel for fear of causing even more pain.

Sam caught the limp frame as Castiel fell headlong into his reach and he couldn't believe how frail the angel was; it was like holding a child. Dean helped him gently lower the angel to the floor but after that neither knew what to do. Chest compressions? Mouth to mouth? The freakin' Heimlich? Even checking for a pulse seemed absolutely ludicrous.

The angel's face held a waxy pallor in stark contrast with the red that seemed to be everywhere else around his form; his lips were as blue as his eyes which were now shut and the brand on his forehead glared accusingly up at them, the angry red skin puckered up in red ridges and lines that seemed like they would never fade. Small convulsions wracked the damaged frame even as the angel remained unresponsive.

Neither of them could speak. Dean's lips were pressed so tightly together that he thought he wouldn't ever be able to peel them apart again because that was the only way to smother down the frantic should in his chest; his hands were curled into fists that remained stiffly at his sides because as he knelt there beside the angel, it was all he could do not to grab Castiel and shake him until there was some sign that he was going to be alright. _Damn it Cas, I've already had too many people die on my watch; don't tell me that I'm going to have to add a freakin' angel to that list._

Movement came from the left and Dean's head snapped to the side, fists up and at the ready at the swirl of footsteps through the water but his hands fell back down to his sides when he was lucid enough to see through the haze of guilt, shame, and anger to recognize Gabriel making his way over from where Belial's vessel lay slumped against the wall. The angel's usually blank face was haggard; his previously impeccable appearance now disheveled. As if for the first time Dean noticed the dark circles underneath the penetrating eyes and the grim set to the angel's mouth.

Sam was staring too, but for a different reason. He had not met this angel before and was unsure as to what this one's opinion about the boy with the demon blood would be and so he hastened to scoot away as Gabriel took to one knee and placed his palm gently against his brother's forehead.

Castiel went completely still.

_What the hell?_ Dean's mind spun and every instinct he bore was screaming that something was wrong, that Castiel was dead but his limbs would respond. Gabriel scooped up the limp form with obvious great care, and Dean could read distress and what seemed to be grief in the angel's face; the blood drained from his face and an odd croak came from his throat. _Is it too late?_

The archangel nodded once to the Winchesters and then disappeared in a flash of light.

* * *

Outside, bodies littered the corridors and lay on the floor, and the fall of holy water from sprinkler system was gradually diminishing into small streams that dripped upon unresponsive faces. In about an hour or so, these people would wake up with no recollection as to how they'd gotten to this abandoned hospital in the middle of nowhere, without the slightest idea as to the struggle between good and evil that had transpired there. Two brothers stood in what seemed like the carnage of a cheap horror flick remake, covered in blood and staring blankly at what was no longer there.

Standing there with crimson-slick hands and the remnants of holy water sliding down his face, even with Sam standing next to him, Dean Winchester knew that he had never felt so alone.

There was a soft beep that came from his left and he looked to the side. Sam was pressing a button on his watch and the elder Winchester raised an eyebrow. "What was that?"

The timepiece displayed 6:30 AM and Sam nodded out the window at the devastatingly beautiful display of oranges and pinks that streaked across the sky, rays extending from the scarlet, flaming orb that rose up over the horizon-

"Dawn."

_A/N: This chapter was just…I really __**need**__ some feedback. I'm usually not one to beg, but please, please, __**please**__ review this time around!! Even if it's just to tell me what was horribly off, just let me know!_

_And is this really the end, you ask? Well... we'll see, won't we? ;-)_


	10. Epilogue

_Disclaimer: Supernatural and all its affiliates belong to Eric Kripke and Dean's ringtone is 'Smoke on the Water' by Deep Purple_.

The gold inlayed symbol was known in virtually every single corner of the world; passed down through the ages and reproduced numberless times to be mounted on walls, kept close to the heart, or as representatives of something greater than all of humanity. Something holier. To some, it was an emblem of either salvation from the hardships of reality and the agonies of damnation but to others, it was merely a figure of two intersecting lines that meant nothing. And here it was, shining brightly up at him on the cover of the book that he had tried to avoid all his life- The Holy Bible.

Of course he'd clutched to the Word of God before, and fervently at that, but at the time he had the excuse of being near delirious with ghost sickness and had the image of a seemingly sweet little girl possessed by one of the most powerful demons of the Pit nearly scaring him to death. Yes, that was good enough of a reason to cling to the volume of recorded words supposedly from the Lord Almighty Himself.

Dean scoffed. _The Word of God. Then how come it's never spoken to me?_ He turned the leather bound NIV over and over in his hands, flipping through the thin, flimsy pages. People were always yapping about how they found solace in God and found a way to seek peace through the storm, or some other mystical mumbo jumbo that made a whole hell of a lot less sense than the craziness that was his life already. _This thing has been around for two thousand years and it's given revelation to countless people. So why is it that I'm the one to get the short end of the stick? Getting orders without knowing the who, what, when or why behind any of it and dreaming of angels getting tortured in Hell…_

Correction. Angel. Singular. He'd only dreamed of one angel in Hell.

_Six days._ It'd been six long, torturous days after the entire ordeal and still there'd been no word as to what became of that particular angel who held out until the end, never relenting, never giving the demons the satisfaction of hearing him give voice to his pain. Alastair hadn't gotten one scream out of his victim, and Dean smirked bitterly because he bet that really pissed the bastard off.

Even bound and tortured to an extent that would have broken even the strongest man, Castiel remained steadfast, fighting to the end. His last word had been a plea for mercy from his Commander in Heaven, from his Father. And it was that one word that was burned forever into Dean's memory. The hunter set his jaw, fighting against the hot tears threatening to well up in his eyes. Cas deserved better than meeting his end in Alastair's clutches.

_He deserved more than my sorry ass being the only one trying to save him._

"_We all came out to montreux-"_

Ian Gillan's unmistakable, timeless voice broke the silence, accompanied by the four-note blues scale melody on the electric guitar and Dean jumped a foot off the wooden pew, wincing as the harsh tone grated on his ears in the otherwise quiet church and grimacing at the sudden ache in his tailbone as he landed hard on his rear end. _Damn it. I've got to change that ringtone. _Transferring the Bible to one hand, he pulled his cell phone from his jacket pocket and squinted at the label.

Sammy. In all its microscopic screen and fuzzy image resolution greatness, the photo ID displayed his brother slouched down in the Impala's passenger seat, head lolled back, zonked out with a plastic spoon stuck in his mouth.

_Good times._ A nostalgic grin pulled at the corner of Dean's mouth, but the feeling was definitely more bitter than sweet. _What wouldn't I give to just go back to those days, when we took the jobs we thought were interesting enough to look into instead of being dictated by this fight between Heaven and Hell. _God, he longed for the days when he and Sam used to have the time and presence of mind to sit down in a bar, to hustle some pool, pick up girls, and unwind. Though chronologically only a little over four years had passed since the two brothers had been united again, it felt like ages ago. And all this time, he still hadn't changed the picture.

"_We didn't have much time-"_

_No, more than that actually because you spent forty years in Hell_, Dean reminded himself and hung his head at the memory. For the love of all things pure and holy, he was only thirty years old. Thirty! Had he been any other all American man, he would probably be working some desk job in a windowless cubicle, going home to the wife and bratty kids in a little house in the suburbs surrounded by a white picket fence and mowing the lawn on weekends, maybe even having time to watch the Superbowl and tailgate before the big games. Once again his thoughts returned to the alternate reality he'd once been presented with when captured by the djinn and his heart sank with the thoughts of what could've been.

"_But some stupid with a flare gun burned the place to the ground-"_

Now he had to live through each and every day looking constantly over his shoulder in paranoia, checking for demons and angels alike. He was tired of being a pawn; he was tired of waking up in the mornings and wildly scanning his surroundings to make sure that Hell hadn't risen. But most of all, Dean Winchester was tired of watching his brother warily, as if Sam was some mentally unstable stranger who was fated to turned rogue any minute. It had almost become force of habit now- seeking out his brother's brown eyes to see if they held even the barest shade of black or fleck of yellow. He didn't even know what he would do if those tell-tale signs of _his_ failure ever appeared. Gouge his brother's eyes out and pray that it was all a dream?

But when had God ever answered his prayers?

"_Smoke on the water, fire in the-"_ his phone insisted and Dean flipped it open.

"Hey."

"Dean?" Sam's voice crackled over the line, slightly muffled by the downpour. "Took you awhile to answer. Everything alright?"

_Just peachy._ Dean bit his tongue and shook his head wearily. Barreling through nearly two weeks with less than ten hours of sleep was really making him cranky. "I'm fine," he mumbled through an enormous yawn that threatened to split his face in two, his mouth was so wide. "What's up?"

"Are you almost done in there? I'm outside in the car, but there's no rush." The reception in the church was more than shitty, but over the static and the percussion of raindrops pounding on the roof, his brother's tone was sympathetic and a held undercurrent of understanding. Suddenly, Dean was stricken with the absurdness of this reversal of roles. This wasn't right. _He_ was the one who was supposed to be the tall, unmovable pillar of solid strength in any and all situations. Sam was his responsibility because Dean was te older brother, not the other way around. _Dad asked me to look after you, Sam. And I'll be damned if I let all of this get so screwed up and twisted around to the point that it's you having to worry about me._

"We have a case?" he asked loudly, partially to be heard and partially to facilitate and hopefully at the same time disguise his eagerness to change subjects. _If only I could just as easily change what's running around in circles in my head._

"Yeah. I was starting to get the feeling that Bobby was getting tired of us squatting at his place, so I found one in Illinois. A ghost that-" Sam was still talking, but Dean barely heard him. _Ghost. Yeah, okay. I can deal with them. Just gotta stock up on the rocksalt and we'll be set._ When his mind finally stopped wandering, there was silence on the other end of the line and he frowned.

"Sam?"

"Dude, you sure you're okay?" _Goddamn it, Sammy. Stop. _There was that worry-filled tone again. Pretty soon his brother was going to be fussing over him like a mother hen and telling him to dry his hair or else he'd catch cold. He stood, barely managing to quell the growl of frustration rising up in the back of his throat when Sam spoke again. "Look, Dean. I know you're worried 'cause you haven't heard anything from or about Cas but you can't let that-"

"Sam!" Dean said sharply, a curt warning. "I told you I'm _fine_. I'll be right out."

His brother fell silent and Dean found himself immediately regretting his harsh tone when Sam mumbled something along the lines of "right" and hung up. _Why do you always have to do that?_ He railed at himself, rubbing his eyes and wondering how the hell he was going to apologize to Sam for acting like a dick in response to his kindness. _You're an idiot, you know that?_ Getting to his feet, he shoved his cell phone back in his jacket pocket when he noticed the Bible he still held and stared at it as if he'd never seen it before.

After a moment's hesitation, his hand extended forward to replace the book but then retracted twice as quickly because what Dean Winchester knew he needed right now, more than ever, was guidance. His hand inched forward again, but for some reason his fingers did not relinquish their tight grip on the worn spine and his thumb inadvertently traced the gold cross on the book's cover.

_Oh, what the hell._ Glancing suspiciously up at the crucifix upon the altar, Dean shoved the NIV into his back pocket and turned swiftly, heading down the aisle and toward the large, majestic double doors located at the back of the sanctuary.

He'd reached the doors and was lifting a hand to push them open when a familiar voice rang out, quiet and yet loud enough to be heard over the rain. "Dean Winchester, your audacity is astounding." Pivoting on his heel, the hunter caught glimpse of the androgynous features, as fine as porcelain and with neutral silver-green eyes staring out of a face as blank as a plaster wall. " 'Thou shalt not steal', so is the Lord's command, and you have done so in the Father's house." Gabriel got to his feet, approaching the other with silent, measured steps.

Dean knew that he should've been afraid, for after all, this was one of the only angels powerful enough to be mentioned by name in the Bible, and supposedly one of the few to have ever seen God's face. But for some reason, when he took the split second to scrutinize his own state of mind, there was no fear to be found. He'd seen too much and been through too many circumstances to quake in his boots at the sight of an angel advancing upon him with no expression on his face. "So send a fearful plague on me and my descendants," he snidely remarked. "Or better yet, why don't you smite me where I stand? That'll make the man upstairs _real_ happy, I'll bet."

Gabriel stopped a couple of paces away, drilling him with a sharp stare, but Dean was beyond caring as all the exasperation and anxiousness of the past two weeks mixed in with sleep deprivation rose up and exploded. "You son of a bitch," he ground out and managed to refrain from lunging at the other and dirtying up that stark white suit with a swing of his fist. Of course he would lose if there happened to be a fight, but as of right now, Dean really couldn't have cared less.

"You really are all a bunch of dicks, you know that?" he spat. "My brother and I fought to save Cas from Alastair and then you disappear with him without even a word of thanks. And then you wait _six_ days to show your face again? Did it ever occur to you that we humans are more than just means to an end in this little game, that I cared about what happened to Cas? That I was too freakin' scared to go to sleep at night 'cause I thought that I'd see the demons peeling his skin away from his bones? _LOOK AT ME_!!_" _Dean roared when Gabriel turned his face away; the corners of the angel's mouth were turned downwards.

"And where the hell were you, huh? Where were you when your _brother_ was being torn apart in Hell? Sitting on a cloud and strumming a harp? What about your boss, your 'Almighty God', isn't he supposed to be merciful and loving and _perfection_ when it comes to being a Father? Well, I don't think He deserves the Father of the Year award this time around if he's too busy focusing on the bigger picture to even care about one of his soldiers-"

"Are you finished?" The words were delivered in a crisp, articulate, no-nonsense tone and Dean scowled darkly. _Are you finished? What does that mean?_ Like hell he was finished! He was going to talk Gabriel's ear off and make sure that the messenger angel relayed every single damn word to God above, wherever His freakin' throne was and tell Him that Dean Winchester didn't want to be a part of this anymore, not when he had to bury his friends one after another; not when he had to watch a bunch of demons torturing the only angel he'd come to trust and care for and…and…

His own words rang in his ears and Dean moved forward slowly, sitting down heavily in the pew in the last row closest to the door, having run out of steam.

Gabriel watched the lines of anger slowly melt away from the hunter's face and as they were replaced with a forced calm. "Are you finished?" he asked again and, head bowed, the hunter grunted what seemed to be an affirmation. "Castiel cautioned me to be patient with you," the archangel remarked coolly and Dean's head lifted.

"Who said that?" It was a whisper of fragile hope.

"The seal was saved. Lucifer was not granted a vessel and-"

"What about Castiel?" Dean interjected brusquely. He already knew about everything else. He needed to know what happened to the angel who pulled him from Hell, who had gained his respect and trust, the only warrior from Heaven the hunter actually began to see as not only a comrade in this struggle, but a friend. Gabriel was silent and that only incited him to further aggravation. "What. Happened. To. Cas?" It was a demand. _So help me, if you don't answer me…_

"My brother is…" Gabriel seemed to be at a loss for words, which was strange for the celestial being who'd been assigned the task of being somewhat of the official hotline between humanity and Heaven.

"Is?" Dean prompted, getting to his feet. A feeling of dread was beginning to creep into the corners of his mind, ridiculing and chasing away the fragments of hope and he swore to himself right then and there that if the man upstairs had abandoned Castiel to the wolves like that and then let the perpetually faithful angel die, such a being was no God at all and much less of a Father than-

"Convalescing."

All the air left Dean's lungs in an audible whoosh and he seemed to visibly deflate: shoulders sagging, fists unclenching, head dropping low and internal intercostals muscles pulling his ribs down and inwards as the fight went out of him. _Convalescing. _It was a fancy way of saying Castiel was lying in some sort of hospital bed (although Dean hoped to high Heaven Cas wasn't being strapped down to some type of stretcher; he'd already had enough of that), covered from head to toe in bandages, probably unconscious and sporting an IV drip. _Or however they heal angels up there._

It was a fancy way of saying that he'd been too late to prevent the demons from ripping Castiel apart like dogs with a chew toy and leaving him barely holding on just for Alastair to go fishing inside the angel's chest. Dean closed his eyes tightly but it did nothing to drive out the mental image of Castiel writhing in agony, eyes growing dull and with his own blood splattering onto his pale face as the demon searched for his grace. With the raising of the witnesses, he'd almost gotten his heart ripped out of his chest but somehow; he imagined that what the angel had been through was much worse.

"Dean." He looked up and Gabriel was still giving him that unnerving stare and had he not known better, Dean would've claimed there to be a hint of condolence and reassurance in the archangel's gaze. "This was a victory."

He snorted. _Is that supposed to make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside?_ "Yeah? And what about Alastair?" he couldn't stop himself from retorting. "And _Anna_?"

The change in Gabriel's countenance was surprising and even somewhat frightening. His smooth face darkened, his eyes flashed dangerously and for once, Dean saw not irritation or annoyance in the features of an angel, but pure and unadulterated wrath. Without even noticing, the hunter flinched at the extent of the rage painted across Gabriel's blank face for it was as if someone had taken a bucket of red paint and splashed it liberally over a white canvas.

But it only lasted for an instant. The next second, the archangel's countenance once again returned to its neutral state and his voice was flat, although considerably frostier than before. "The demon will be hunted down and the traitor will be subjected to the swift punishment of God Almighty."

_So they both escaped._ Dean inhaled deeply and willed himself to remain calm. _Don't think about closing your fingers around that ivory neck you once kissed in the heat of passion and shaking the life out of that girl for what she did to Cas. Don't think about gutting Alastair like the pig he is. Just… _"Somehow you don't seem the type to just pop by for a chat," he said, attempting to feign nonchalance in order to distract himself. "What, do you have more orders for me or something?"

"No orders," the angel replied evenly, taking one step closer. "I come here on behalf of my brother."

"You're telling me I did him this big of a favor and he can't even manage to come himself?" Dean scoffed, but it was merely to disguise his worry. He knew firsthand of Alastair's expertise and as much as he hated to admit it, the white-eyed demon was indeed, as Ruby once said, Picasso with a knife. _Is Cas really that bad off? I know that Alastair didn't manage to rip his grace out, but what else did that monster do? And what did they do to him in Hell?_

Gabriel saw through the poorly constructed front. "For an angel, having one's grace forcibly removed results in permanent separation from the Father and condemnation to the Pit." He uplifted his eyes to the rain that pounded against the stained glass windows. "Castiel was already subjected to torment in Hell itself and when Alastair tried to take from him the essence of his soul…" The angel shook his head. "It is truly a miracle that Castiel still draws breath."

"Yeah, glory be to God, huh?" Dean muttered sarcastically. "I'm available Mondays through Fridays, from seven in the morning till midnight. If you ever need me around to save another angel's ass, just pop up out of nowhere and demand that I do what you say and I'll be all too happy to oblige. Or," he started angrily, moving one step closer to the angel, "Or you could just start sending me freaky-ass nightmares without any explanation and let me go crazy trying to figure it out on my own!"

Gabriel's eyes narrowed at the blatant disrespect and he seemed to grow twice as menacing with that simple movement, swelling up ominously. "What they did to my brother in Hell is unspeakable," the angel said in a low, calm voice that was somehow more terrifying than had he been using his real voice. "When Castiel pulled you out of the Pit, it was no easy task because Hell did not wish to relinquish you. He fought fiercely for _your_ soul and when he finally managed to pry you from Alastair's clutches, it was almost at the sake of his own spirit." The angel turned away, face uplifted toward the sky beyond the church's ceiling, eyes turned inward toward some memory too terrible to relate.

"Losing his prize pupil to an angel was a devastating blow to Alastair." The angel's mouth twisted as he spat out the name like it was acid in his mouth. "He targeted Castiel as the sacrifice required for the breaking of this seal specifically because it is his handprint that marks you, and because you are his charge." Again, Dean saw the flash of that unnamable danger in Gabriel's face; mingled with an emotion the hunter hadn't known angels could express- sorrow. "Alastair made my brother suffer in ways beyond human capacity for understanding or imagination. Everything the demons couldn't do to you for fear of damaging your soul beyond repair, they did to my brother a thousand times over."

Dean swallowed hard. He remembered what the demons did to him, and he remembered what they _couldn't_ do, what even Alastair had to say no to and by God… _Cas, how did you do it? How did you manage not to break?_

"Hell made you an offer every single day after the torture ended. Castiel was tempted similarly, but the deal was a swift death and relief from the torment in the depths of the abyss in exchange for two things: one of his kin for the completion of the sacrifice and Lucifer's intended vessel."

Stunned realization and shock registered on Dean's face. "Sam?"

"Yes. Now you know exactly how much Castiel underwent for your sake." The archangel was staring him down again; Dean could feel the intensity of the gaze but he couldn't lift his head. _Why, Cas, why?_ His mind kept repeating it over and over, a mantra filled with guilty thankfulness. "The Lord Almighty may not strike you down for your insolence, but you would do well to watch your tongue in matters concerning my brother."

The weighty threat was well known because Dean could remember uttering something along the same lines before and he inwardly marveled at the fierce protectiveness the supposedly emotionless angel was displaying. Behind the pomp and circumstance, behind the mask of no expression and speech of some old Gregorian monk, Dean saw a fuzzy reflection of himself- a soldier fighting against the forces of evil at his Father's word, fighting to keep others safe and ready to deliver a world of hurt to anyone who dared to harm his little brother.

"_Smoke on the water, fire in the sky-"_

Ian Gillan made himself known again and broke the mini-staring contest that had surfaced. Dean pulled out his phone and glanced down at it. _Sammy._ The hunter cleared his throat and brought the small communication device to his ear. "Hey Sam."

"Dean, you said you were coming out almost fifteen minutes ago." Sam's voice crackled over the line and he closed his eyes, knowing that if not for Castiel, he wouldn't have been able to hear his pain in the ass little brother nagging at him right now.

"Yeah…I kinda got interrupted by an angelic roadblock."

"Cas? Uriel?"

"No, the mail-angel. Gabriel."

"Oh." Sam sounded surprised. "Well, uh… whenever you're done."

Dean hung up and turned to see Gabriel looking at him expectantly. "What?"

"You have an inquiry." Not a question, but a statement. Dean tried to ignore the creepiness of the angel knowing what was inside his head and spoke.

"Is Cas gonna be okay?"

"My brother is strong, but his spirit needs recover," Gabriel replied softly, so softy that the hunter almost didn't hear him. "He bade me come to express his gratitude for your assistance and acknowledges that he is now in your debt."

_Aw, damn it._ _In my debt? Buddy, you're the one who pulled me out of Hell and now you've saved Sam too. I'm the one who's in your debt. _ There was that stupid sob rising up in his throat again and Dean blinked furiously to stave off the oncoming droplets that threatened to be as heavy as the downpour going on outside. He turned away, embarrassed by such outward show of emotion. "In my debt, huh?" He tried to sound flippant but how the hell was he supposed to do that? "Well I'm not gonna start collecting just yet, so tell Cas to just…take it easy," he mumbled, voice petering out as he shoved open the door. The storm raged on still, but before he stepped into the rain where the tears could mingle with the moisture falling from the sky, Dean heard Gabriel's voice behind him once more.

"I will relay your message."

Not trusting himself to speak, all Dean could manage was a shaky nod as he stepped out of the shelter of the house of God and into the pouring rain, toward where Sam waited in the Impala.

* * *

"Dean?" Sam queried when his brother slammed the passenger door shut and turned his face to the window, eyes closed. He tried to peer out the window and into the church that Dean had just vacated, but couldn't see through the curtain of rain. "What happened?"

"Just drive, Sam," came the whispered response, voice thick with emotion and as Sam put the car into gear, he swore he saw liquid that wasn't rainwater trailing down his brother's cheeks.

"How's Cas?"

The elder Winchester passed a hand over his eyes and cleared his throat, letting his head fall back against the chair. He could still smell the ammonia he'd used to scrub the car with in efforts to drive away the stench of sulfur. He could still see Alastair's hand, covered with blood, swinging toward him to grip his throat and he could still hear Castiel's strangled gasp: _"Pater." _

Father.

The book in his back pocket prodded against his back and Dean tried to grin weakly as he turned to face his brother. Sammy, his little brother, who was still here. "It's gonna be alright, Sam." _You're not Lucifer's vessel, we saved the seal, my car doesn't smell like rotten eggs anymore and Cas is recovering. Everything's going to be alright._

_

* * *

_

Gabriel watched the Impala driving off into the grayness of the storm and shook his head. "You shouldn't be here."

A quiet footstep sounded behind the archangel. "I am safe in the Father's house." The voice was hoarse, weak, and barely audible. Gabriel sighed.

"You ought to be resting in the hallowed halls above." He turned, pinning the other with a stern stare. "I do not wish to have to carry you back to Heaven again."

Sapphire blue eyes shone out of the dark interior of the church accompanied by a chuckle. "Am I too heavy for you, Gabriel?"

"Dean Winchester is a bad influence and he seems to be rubbing off on you."

This time, there was soft laughter and it warmed the archangel's heart to hear it coming from his brother's mouth instead of the dying gasps of several days prior. "You worry too much, brother." Castiel remarked with a gentle smile gracing his lips and vanished in a shaft of light.

The archangel's mouth twitched until it was almost a smile. Almost.

Suddenly he turned his head sharply, eyes narrowed and ears straining to hear the revelation coming from heaven and a deep frown creased Gabriel's brow.

Someone was killing his kin.

_A/N: We've come to the end of our journey here…thank you for giving me (and this story!) a chance and I'd like to say a heartfelt thank you to all my reviewers. You guys are the ones that fueled this story and kept this author's imagination going. Give yourselves a hand! _

_As usual, I'm hopeful that you'll take a second to give me some feedback, as in __**where the heck do I go from here?**__ I may even entertain requests; who knows? Please review! _


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